Ghost of a Memory
by noone2
Summary: Sam fits the victim profile for their latest case, can Dean do what's needed to save him and just how hurt will he get in the process? Set season 1 for reasons which should be obvious. Plenty of Whump and Anguish- Complete
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Supernatural, its character's or any of its back story. I merely write this as an homage to a wonderful show, wonderful actors and writers in the hope that no one will mind.

This story was written for Sarah and she has graciously allowed me to post it for others to read. Unlike many of the stories I post it is already finished so I will be posting every couple of Days.

Author's notes:- Set season 1 for reasons which will become obvious. For those who haven't figured it out by now my favourite scenario is to shamelessly hurt Dean whilst having him only worry about Sam- and happily that was exactly what Sarah asked for in her story. Please let me know what you think- J:)

Sam fits the victim profile for their latest case, can Dean do what's needed to save him?

**Ghost of a Memory.**

**Chapter 1**

Sam melted into the warm soft touch of her skin, savoured the sweet caresses, returning them with his own, his hands ghosting across the surface of her smooth skin. Soft sweet lips pressed against his and his mind was lost in a swirl of sensation, as all five senses responded, her smell, her taste, her touch, her soft laughter, her beautiful eyes, perfect beauty, perfect lust, perfect love. Lost in pleasure, heading for ecstasy and then she was gone.

Ripped from him with a violence that made him scream, that made him feel as though some of his own skin had been torn away with her. "No. . . Jessica," he called, trying to move, trying to go after her, but he couldn't, his muscles wouldn't work. With all his will he tried to move, straining against the invisible force that held him to the bed but there was nothing he could do except watch her fly upwards, watch the terror on her features as she reached down for him, hear her scream for help as her blood started to fall, dripping onto his forehead, in the same spot, always in the same damn spot. He had to watch her as she began to burn, unable to tear his gaze away, unable to help her, unable to save her. . . .he felt his heart snap in two and the pain tore down through his insides, and then he could move again and he leapt up, his eyes flying open, his heart thudding in his chest, sweat dripping from his brow, his gut twisted into seven kinds of agony.

It took him several rapid panting breaths, his gaze sweeping the small motel room before he could get his bearings and acknowledge the repeating nightmare for what it was. There was no fire here, no dead girlfriend on the ceiling, no demons to fight except his own. He was in a motel room in Peterstown, Arizona, and his brother was sleeping peacefully in the next bed. He pushed a shaky hand through his hair, and that was when he felt it, a sticky all too familiar substance. He pulled his hand forward and gazed at the grey smear, reaching across to turn on the bedside light so that he could confirm that it was what he thought it was, bright red and glistening, blood. His gaze swept the room again for some way that he could have been injured for some reason. . .but aside from the twisted sheets that wrapped in knots around his legs the room was exactly how he'd left it when he'd finally let the lure of the bed, and his growing exhaustion, persuade him to try for a little sleep. There was a soft glow from his computer screen, discarded clothes littering the floor, nothing unusual, nothing to explain.. . . He looked down and the panic notched up again. Sweat was already beading on his skin, his breaths coming in short uncomfortable pants. He pulled the sheets awkwardly from his legs and stumbled to the bathroom, to the mirror. Staring at his own ashen expression, the sunken eyes with dark rings that spoke once more of too little sleep. He stared at the red mark on his forehead. Wiping it away he realised that there was nothing underneath. Nowhere for the blood to have come from, no cuts, and it was in the exact spot, the place where her. . .He barely made it to the toilet bowl before losing what little food he'd managed to force down during the day, heaving, long after his stomach was empty, and then he was frantically rinsing out his mouth, before almost ripping the flimsy shower curtain down in his haste to get under the soothing stream of water. It started cold but he didn't care, turned to almost scalding hot, but still he didn't seem to notice as he scrubbed at his face, at his body, trying to wash away the sensations, the memories, the nightmare. It all hurt too much, just too damn much and it was all he could do not to collapse into a heap and sob the pain away, but he didn't, he couldn't. All he could do was try to wash it away.

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Dean waited until he was sure the bathroom door had closed before sitting up, his own gut tightening at the sounds of his brother retching. He scrubbed his hand tiredly across his face in an unconscious effort to push back the tears of frustration and concern that stung on the edge of his vision. Part of him wanted to jump up, run into the bathroom and pull his kid brother into an embrace. Tell him that everything would be all right, somehow wipe away his pain and his grief, but he knew that he couldn't, knew that even the gesture stood a good chance of making things worse, because Sam wasn't a kid any more, couldn't be sheltered by him any more from the terrors of the world, and these days Dean's attempts to do so just seemed to make his brother mad.

Sam didn't want to be protected. He wanted to do his share of the protecting, and so Dean had let him, let him believe that he was unaware of the effect this hunt was having on him.

So no, he couldn't go into the bathroom and grab him. Sam thought he was asleep, thought he didn't know that the nightmares had returned, the nightmares that he hadn't had in at least six months, at least not bad, not this bad. Hell, they had never been this bad, but ever since this town, this place, this hunt, ever since they had arrived in this damn place Sam had been having nightmares, and they were getting progressively worse. He hadn't slept in two days and he looked like hell. Dean knew that he wasn't far behind. Sam hadn't slept and Dean hadn't slept worrying about Sam, and what was worse he was pretending he had, because he didn't want his brother to see how worried he was, didn't want to add to the emotional burden They were both pussyfooting around each other, walking on eggshells, each pretending that there wasn't a problem, but there was, and it had everything to do with where they were and what they were doing here.

Dean pushed back the covers and swung his legs around to hit the floor, his elbows meeting his knees, his head dropping dejectedly into his hands as he unsuccessfully tried to block out the sounds of his brother's suffering. He'd been a fool, a fool to take up this hunt, a fool to come here. He should have seen the parallels, should have known that this had the potential to hit his brother hard. He was only just getting over Jessica, only just coming to terms with her death; the wounds were too raw. Why hadn't he seen, why hadn't he thought. . . Dean stood with every intention of beating his fist against the wall or maybe his head, maybe that would ease the pain of knowing that this was his fault, that he had opened his brother up for this suffering by bringing him here. He got as far as swinging it up, white knuckled and ready to take the pain, because physical pain was a lot easier to take than emotional pain, another lesson he'd learnt at an early age. Breaking your leg was a whole lot better feeling than the guilt of letting something happen to the younger brother you were supposed to be looking after. But something made him pull the punch at the last minute, maybe it was the change in sounds from the bathroom, the retching had stopped and now the shower was running, maybe it was a moment of rationality that fought through the frustration and the guilt.

'Hurting yourself won't help your brother.' The thought echoed around his mind as he dropped his fist to his side and turned to scan the room. His feet were moving before he'd even realised that he'd made a decision. He grabbed Sam's overnight bag from the floor and began to pack.

It didn't even occur to him that part of the decision he'd just made meant that the pretending was well and truly over.

By the time Sam emerged from the bathroom, Dean had Sam's things packed and was most of the way through his own. He didn't even look up as his brother came through the door, he just moved over to pick something off the floor and stuff it into his bag.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his brother, his thinking was dulled by the lack of sleep and the almost strangling emotions that seemed to tie themselves around every thought. It took him several moments to process what he was seeing. He had expected to find Dean asleep, well, possibly awake, he had made a lot of noise, but wide awake and packing ? for both of them. . .? Finally he found the words to speak "Dean what the hell? . . .Are we going somewhere?"

Dean didn't stop, didn't even look up as he gave his answer. "Yes we are."

Sam took a step forward, blocking his brother's path to the drawer he'd been emptying. "Care to tell me where?" he asked.

Dean finally met his gaze. "Away from here." He side stepped around Sam and took some socks from the drawer moving back to his pack.

"Care to tell me why?" Sam asked, the anger and frustration beginning to build because he already knew the answer.

Dean stuffed the last of his socks into his bag and began fumbling with the zip. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. He just wanted Sam to see the logic of it, say "OK, let's go," grab his pack and hop into the Impala so that they could get the hell out of here, and, as Peterstown faded to a dot in the rearview mirror, his brother's nightmares would disappear with equal ease and they could get back to where they were. He looked up, yeah and he could also see pink, curly tailed creatures doing an airshow for him.

Sam wasn't going to just walk away from this, however much it was hurting him, but it was Dean's job to convince him that he should, that he had to. "Because," he stated, but there was no more. He met his brother's gaze, 'because' would have to be enough, even though it was woefully inadequate as reasons went. Why couldn't it be enough?

Sam waited for more, when it wasn't forthcoming he was forced to ask. "Because what? What in the hell is going on here Dean? You've never been one to cut and run in the middle of the night."

"This is my hunt," Dean tried, he really didn't want to explain to his brother just how worried he was, and even though a small part of him knew that vagueness wasn't going to cut it, that his concerns would have to be expressed, that emotions that neither of them were comfortable discussing would have to come out, he still tried to avoid it. In the way that his father had always avoided discussing things that really mattered, once he'd made his mind up the boys had no choice but to do what he wanted. He hated himself for trying to pull the same thing with his brother now, but he had to get him out of here, and this was the only way, because as soon as things got more emotional he knew that he'd cave. So he had to try this way. "And I say we call it off and get out of here." He looked away as he prepared the lie. "I'm not even sure this is one for us, could just be a serial killer." Dean picked up his bag.

"You don't believe that," Sam stated, his thinking still a little fuzzy. If he'd been awake he would have picked up on what was really happening the second he'd walked out of the bathroom, but he was still confused and frustrated by the fact that Dean was even awake, let alone suggesting that they drop a hunt in the middle and just leave.

"I do," Dean stated forcefully, making himself meet his brother's gaze once again. "Now, come on let's go." He tried to walk round Sam but his brother squared up to his full height, a height that was a few inches taller and shoulders that squared up a few inches wider even though he was the younger brother, and blocked his path.

"No, not until you tell me. . . ." he stopped as his thoughts finally cleared. He looked into Dean's eyes and saw the concern, saw the fear, realised that everything to this point had been an act. Saw the dark hollows under Dean's eyes that reflected his own.

Dean hadn't been sleeping oblivious, he had known. He knew, knew how bad it was, wanted to protect him. Sam took an involuntary step backwards as his mind processed rapidly and his already screwed emotions went into overdrive. He gave a slight gasp, one that you would only have noticed if you knew him, a gentle puff of air from a soft mental blow to the gut, before recovering. "I'm fine," he stated, proving he could be just as forceful with a lie as his brother.

Dean's eyes drifted meaningfully across to the bathroom door and back. "Oh yeah you're just peachy," his own irrational anger was building, and, despite the fact that he knew it was irrational, he was too tired and scared to control it. "I was forgetting how having nightmares so bad you don't sleep for three days.. . ." he pointed at the bathroom door, "nightmares so bad they make you spew your guts, I was forgetting that that was just your norm." He paused drawing in breath his eyes flashing. "You are not frickin' fine Sam." With a huge effort he reined in the anger a little, snorting some of it out through flared nostrils. He tried and mostly failed to soften his tone. "You need to get out of here, away from this."

"And what. . . ." Sam asked, "run away? Let other people die, because we cut and run? Since when has that been the way we do things, Dean? Since when?"

"It's not our fight," Dean tried. "We don't have to. . ."

"Yes we do," Sam stated, "because nobody else will."

Dean took a step back, the irony of the role reversal not lost on him, here he was fighting to abandon a hunt and Sam was fighting to stay on it, but he wasn't prepared to give up yet, even though he knew that his brother was right. This wasn't a serial killer, at least not a human one, and if they left it would claim more victims, but could he stay and risk one of those victims being Sam? They were both so far off their game. He met his brother's gaze. "Staying here is killing you," he stated softly, glancing away again as the weight of the emotional connection bowed his head and forced his eyes down. "And," he drew in another breath, just managing to meet Sam's gaze again. "You know that you fit the victim profile, right?"

"Since when has being in danger made us run from a hunt?" Sam asked, his own anger draining away through the pool of fear in his brother's eyes.

Since I have to watch you suffer. . . since I can't protect you. . . since I might loose you.

Dean dropped his bag on to the bed and picked up Sam's "I'll help you unpack." It was a quiet admission of defeat. He walked over to Sam's bed and dumped his bag there.

Sam joined him, breathing heavily as his screwed emotions tried to settle. It took him a moment to register that Dean was staring at something. "Dean?"

"Did you cut yourself?. . .hurt yourself," Dean asked.

Sam shook his head and followed Dean's gaze to the clear round spots of blood on the pillow.

TO BE CONTINUED.. . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: I Can See Dead People.**

Sam stared at the blood, his thoughts dancing around in a jumble. "I'm not. . .I didn't. . .You can see that?" he asked looking back up at his brother.

Dean met his gaze, slightly surprised by the question. "Of course I can see it. It's blood on a white pillow why wouldn't I be able to see. . ." He stopped, watching as Sam took a tense step backwards staring up at the ceiling, then looking down at the blood and back up again. "It was. . .in my nightmare.. . ." He spoke hesitantly. "I saw. . .it was. . " His voice dropped so quiet Dean had to strain to hear the next word. "Jess. . ."

Dean was dragged back to that day six months ago when he'd once again had to run from a burning building with his younger brother. Only this time he'd caught some of the horror, had seen the vision that had so clearly haunted his father for all these years. Sam's girlfriend Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding burning, just like his mother, and in all his imaginings it hadn't been as bad as the reality. Now he knew what he'd seen on those occasions when he'd looked into his father's eyes and seen the anguish, and knew he was remembering.

He'd had his own share of nightmares since that day. His mind replacing what he saw of Jessica with what he remembered of his mother, but as ever he'd subsumed his own horror and grief beneath his brothers, Sam's was more immediate, more recent, more important. Sam had lost someone he loved and no one should have to go through that. Dean had barely dragged him out alive, and sometimes when he looked into his eyes he seemed to still be trapped in that moment. Again like father like son, and Dean knew only too well what that kind of grief could do to a man. He'd watched his father's pain for years and repressed his own, and now he watched his brother's.

Dean looked up to the ceiling. He knew that there was nothing there but he still had to look.

"You're sure you can see that?" Sam asked, as Dean looked down at the pillow again.

Dean nodded moving forwards, reaching out tentatively to touch the red stain, staring fascinated as he brought his fingers back rubbing it between them. "Feels like blood," he stated flatly. He brought his fingers up to his nose. "Smells like it too."

"Dude, if you taste that I swear I'll barf" Sam said, wincing slightly, "and I've got nothing left to bring up."

Dean looked up at him and gave a half smile, the tension that somehow thickened the air around them eased slightly, as Sam began to slip back into the safety of their banter. It had allowed them to function in situations that would have your average teenager or twenty something screaming and running away. Whatever the horror movies would have you believe, most people weren't brave enough, or stupid enough to walk into genuinely haunted houses, or face down real zombies and demons, but Sam and Dean Winchester did, regularly, even though they knew what these things could really do, and if they weren't going to scream or run then they had to replace that with something, especially when they were genuinely scared, like now, freaked in fact.

"No, but if you get your junior CSI kit out you can find out what this is," Dean said gesturing to the red smear on his fingers, "while I check for EMF."

That was the other thing that kept them both going, action, doing stuff. As long as they were working, somehow the horror was easier to deal with. Sam nodded and grabbed the small pack of chemicals they kept. Dean went to the bathroom to clean up before, retrieving his homemade EMF detector. It looked like a high school science fair project, gone wrong, but it did the job and Dean was never one to go for style over function.

"Wow," Dean said as all the bells and whistles went off on the detector. "The readings are off the scale and they seem to be centred on. . . ." He moved the detector around, tracing a wide arc around the room. He frowned.

Sam moved forward, walking around the bed to get to his brother. "What is it? Let me see."

Dean moved the scanner round again just to be sure, but now that his brother was moving there could be no mistaking the reading. He looked up, shoving the antenna of the homemade device together as he turned it off. "So what did you find out? Is it blood? Is it human?"

The distraction worked briefly as Sam's attention was drawn away from the device in Dean's hands. He met his brother's gaze. "Yes and yes," he answered.

"And you're sure you haven't got any cuts on you?" Dean asked. "Maybe I should check." He tossed the scanner on to the bed beside him and brushed Sam's hair back to reveal his hairline. Slightly relieved as his hand touched solid warm flesh, not that that was a true indication, there were creatures that could fool your senses, but. . .no, this was Sam. There was some other explanation for. . .

Sam knocked his brother's hands away. "I told you no, I'm fine, no cuts. I already checked in the mirror. Now what did the scanner show." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dean sighed. Picking up the scanner, he dropped heavily onto the bed, bouncing slightly on the cheap springs. He fiddled with it between his fingers for a few seconds before answering. "The EMF readings are centred on you." He met his brother's gaze. "Whatever we're dealing with, whatever happened in this room, it's centred on you."

Sam was slightly surprised that he wasn't surprised by the revelation. Somehow he'd known, known that the nightmare was more than just a nightmare, known that something was happening and that it now involved him. He nodded sagely. "Breakfast?" he asked.

Dean felt sick. Something was happening and Sam was right in the middle of it. It was too late to run away, too late to take the easy route. They had to solve this or Sam would. . .The last thing he felt like doing was casually strolling into a diner and ordering eggs over easy. They needed to work, needed to re-interview friends and relatives, check for local legends, do research to find something that would fit the profile. They needed to. . ."Breakfast," he agreed.

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Despite the earlier feelings of sickness Dean tucked into his breakfast with gusto, shovelling the eggs and sweet bacon down almost without touching the sides. The first mouthful had been enough to convince him that if he could just cram enough in then maybe he could fill the gaping hole where his intestines used to be. Far from making him feel worse, the food was having a calming effect on him. Maybe this was what comfort eating was all about. Good job he had a healthy metabolism and a job that meant running around a lot, otherwise he was darn sure he could get used to this, and he didn't really relish the thought of ending up stuck in an armchair the size of a small house.

Sam by contrast was picking at his food, taking the odd tentative bite and then pushing the rest around his plate with the fork, like a kid trying to convince his parents that he had actually eaten something so that maybe he could get dessert. Not that Sam had ever had any parents to convince, Dean had usually fed him, and Dean was a pushover.

"You gonna eat that bacon?" Dean asked eyeing it hungrily. He was slightly worried that his brother wasn't eating but if Sam didn't want the food, letting it go to waste wouldn't change anything, and he still had a big hole to fill.

Sam pushed his plate over. "Help yourself," he stated, pulling his 'God you're a pig' grimace before picking up his coffee and taking a sip. "So what's our next step?"

"I think," Dean said around a mouthful of bacon, "that we should try to talk to Matt's friends. See if they noticed anything unusual."

Matt was the first victim, and since his death had happened almost two months previously, they had so far been concentrating on Simon, who had died just four days ago. It had taken them a day to get here then they'd gone straight to the crime scene. They'd spent the next couple of days checking the internet and the archives of the local papers and attempting to talk to Simon's friends and family, but they had nothing but dead ends to show for it. Simon had become a virtual recluse since his fiancées death in a house fire just five months earlier. No one had seen or heard from him in the days leading up to his death, so talking to them hadn't been much help, and there didn't seem to be anything unusual about the way she'd died, at least not their kind of unusual. They had managed to get a look at photographs of the fire, a simple electrical fault, traced to a faulty heater. They had nothing, so it was time to see if they would have more luck with Matt's friends.

Sam nodded and took another sip from his coffee. He wasn't sure what made him turn his head to look through the slightly grimy window, and that was when he saw her, standing just twenty feet away in the parking lot, her hair blown by the morning wind so that she had to raise her hand to push the strands back from her face. He caught the moment that she saw him, recognised him. Her face lit up and she smiled at him. Jessica smiled at him in that way that made his insides skip.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Secrets and Lies**

It was Jessica.

With all he knew, with all he'd seen, Sam should have been thinking what, rather than whom he was seeing, spirit, demon, shape shifter, illusion, delusion, one of these was responsible for what he saw. That should have been his thought process, but it wasn't. As far as Sam was concerned, Jessica was there, had never died. She was there for him, and yet there was still the pain, the emptiness and loss of grief that stabbed through his insides, coiled his intestines and brought tears to his eyes. It was so totally illogical and irrational that he should have noticed. It was an impossible dichotomy, but to Sam it somehow made perfect sense. She was there to share his grief at her loss, to share in his pain so that she would know how much he loved her in a way that he had never expressed fully when she was alive, when he should have, when he needed her to know that she had stolen a part of his soul. He could get that back now because she was here.

"Sam!"

Sam's attention snapped back to his brother as the sharp use of his name finally registered, along with the fact that Dean had been talking to him for longer than the last word.

"Sorry," Sam muttered the apology as Dean's eyes scanned his face, concern creating an almost v-shaped furrow across his brow. Sam's eyes drifted back to where Jessica had been standing, but she was gone.

Dean followed his brother's gaze but there was nothing other than empty sidewalk. He returned to his scrutiny of Sam, knowing that it had taken him a couple of minutes to notice his brother's distraction, he'd been so damned focussed on shovelling food into his mouth to fill that empty place in his gut, he really needed to pay more attention when there was so clearly something going on with Sam and. . . "So what's so darned interesting out there?" Dean asked. Was that disappointment on his brother's face? Had he expected to see something that wasn't there any more? He followed Sam's still distracted gaze once more but there was nothing. He looked back in time to see his brother visibly shake himself back to the present conversation from wherever he had been, from whatever he had seen. "You see somethin'?"

"No, sorry."

Lie!

Dean knew it was a lie, not that he could have explained how he knew.

"Just a little distracted I guess," Sam shifted forward in his seat leaning one elbow on the table as he stirred his coffee. "So, you were saying?"

There was the slightest of hesitations before Dean allowed himself to continue, an acknowledgement that he would have to watch his brother even more closely from now on. Sam clearly wasn't going to tell him what was going on, probably didn't want to worry him. Bang up job he was doing on that. "I said we should probably start with Matt's mother."

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The hour they spent with Matt's mother was a complete bust. They had gone for the 'school friends of his who had been out of town and had only just heard, wanting to pay their condolences and find out what had happened to their friend' line, which had worked just fine up to a point, but it was hard to come up with feasible questions that would get loved ones to go into the grisly details.

Still, it had all happened too long ago to use cops or reporters as a cover, at least not without also letting others in on the parallels this had with Simon Taylor's murder. As far as they knew they were the only ones investigating both cases at the moment and they wanted to keep it that way.

Not that a different cover would've helped, for the simple reason that she didn't know anything, at least not anything that would help them. She had comforted her son through the loss of his fiancée, she had died in a car crash, well, more accurately the fire that followed when her gas tank ignited, she had survived the initial impact and that had made it all the harder for him to come to terms with. If there had been someone there to get her out she would have survived. After six months Matt was just about getting his life back together when he had stopped seeing his mother. He'd stopped calling, stopped coming round, and she could only get his answer phone when she called. Three days later he was dead, the victim of a random and brutal attack.

Dean looked up at his brother as they headed back to the car, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the drawn pinched skin that spoke of lack of sleep, and, for that matter lack of nutrition. since Sam hadn't been eating well either, and he knew that he didn't look or feel much better. They needed to get this one solved, while they were still capable, not to mention the new imperative that suggested that whatever it was would be coming after Sam next. Damn his brother looked wiped.

"So, we go see Tiffany next?" Dean asked, attempting to push some enthusiasm into the comment. "From what I remember of the pictures she was hot."

"No."

The reply was softly spoken so it took a moment for it to register. Dean stopped for a pace letting Sam get slightly ahead of him. He wasn't quite sure why the reply shocked him so much, aside from the fact that Sam usually just agreed with him, but it did and it took him a moment to get his head to a place where he could acknowledge that there was nothing wrong with that. If Sam had a better idea. . . He hustled to catch up. "Why you got a better idea?" he asked.

"No," Sam replied again.

"No," Dean repeated, "then what. . .?"

This time Sam stopped and his brother stopped with him, waiting for him to explain.

"Truth is I'm so tired I can barely see straight," Sam confessed quietly. "I was hoping that I could go back to the motel. . ." he let the sentence trail off. It was laced with just enough guilt. "Could you take this one on your own?" He gave a slight smile. "I mean if she's hot you don't want me cramping your style anyway right?"

Dean studied his brother for a moment, the tiredness couldn't be denied, and on face value the comments were perfectly normal, but there was something. . . "That's OK," I could do with getting some rest too why don't we both. . ."

Sam shook his head, "No, we need to get this done, If you don't feel like taking it on your own then," he gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose I can rest later, it's not like I'm sleeping well anyway so. . ."

He'd started walking again, and Dean stood for a moment, trying to run through both sides of the argument in his head. He really didn't want to leave Sam on his own, not with what had happened this morning. Then again, if his brother had got to the point where he was asking to go lie down in the middle of the day, then the exhaustion really must be catching up on him and if he wouldn't take the rest unless Dean kept up with the investigation. . . besides he was right they did need to get this solved before anything happened to. . .They just needed to get this done.

Dean was moving after his brother again, upping his pace a little to catch the taller sibling up. They drew level as they reached the car. "OK," Dean said, looking over the roof at his brother. "I'll drop you at the motel and go interview the lovely Tiffany on my own."

Sam gave a grateful smile. "So long as you remember what you're there to talk to her about," he said teasingly, apparently ignoring the fact that it was his idea that Dean should go alone.

They both climbed into the Impala. "I don't know what you're talking about," Dean grinned innocently.

Anyone watching who knew the boys would have seen this as their usual banter, but they both knew that there was the undercurrent of something else going on here and neither of them was in a position to do anything about it.

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Dean laughed along with her and it was an easy task, to share laughter with someone as cute and sexy as Tiffany Mahers, blond, curvy and exceptionally well proportioned, Dean would have hit on her instantly in any bar, if he'd been lucky enough to catch her in one that was. She didn't seem like the type who would need to hang around in one to get a date. No, Tiffany was the sort of girl he'd only get if he bumped into her as she came out of the grocery store or at the gas station. She was the sort of girl who wouldn't be found anywhere he would hang out and he was beginning to reappraise the places he should hang out in the future.

They were laughing at a shared memory of one of Matt's little quirks, at least Tiffany thought it was a shared memory, her story about Matt's inability to admit when he needed to look at a map was real, Dean's anecdote, equally amusing and real sounding was entirely made up. They had been talking like this for the last half hour, trading stories about their friend, and Dean knew that he had her totally trusting him and totally relaxed. It was time to change the mood, time to ask the questions that he'd come here for. He gave a last laugh and took a swig of his drink, his expression sobering. "So what happened?" he asked. "I mean I heard about Emma and everything; that must have been terrible for him."

Tiffany's own expression sobered and she put her glass down on the table, spinning it slowly between her hands as she remembered the pain her friend had gone through. "He was a wreck for months afterwards," she said quietly, "I mean, he fell apart at the funeral and after that for a while he was just going through the motions. On the surface everything seemed OK. He'd say and do all of the right things, but. . ." she stared into her drink.

"But. . ." Dean prompted.

"But," she looked up met Dean's gaze. "It was like you could still see the pain inside him, when you looked into his eyes. You could see how much it was still hurting him. You know what I mean."

Dean held her eyes steady, as a knife dropped straight down from his throat through his gut. "Yes," he said quietly, he had seen that pain.

Tiffany took another sip of her drink, blinking back the tears that were on the edge of forming. "I mean he didn't ever say anything, not after that first few weeks, but it was always there between us." Her drink hit the table again and now both hands were gripping it. "But it was easing, he was getting better ya know? I was starting to think that maybe. . ."

And that was when it hit Dean that Tiffany had been in love with Matt. He wasn't sure if it was before, during or after Emma, but somewhere along the line her feelings had turned to more than just friendship and she had been hoping. . . He swallowed, feeling slightly guilty that he had made her relive all of this, but he needed answers. "You thought he might go out with you?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "I did at least until. . ."

"Until what?"

"Those last few days," Tiffany looked up at him and Dean could clearly see the formed tears now although they did not fall. "We were getting closer, much closer and then he changed. It was something. . ." she struggled to express herself. "He kept disappearing, saying he was tired, that he wanted to be alone, even told me that he thought maybe he had some kind of virus and that I'd better stay away but. . ." she shifted in her seat. "He wasn't resting when he said he was resting. He was out somewhere, going somewhere."

"Do you know where?"

"No I caught him coming back a couple of times when he'd told me he was going to stay in. He just told me that he'd been for a walk, to clear his head."

"And you didn't believe him?"

Tiffany shook her head, staring at the table again. "Then on that last day," she sniffed, "the day he. . .the day he died." She looked up, studied Dean for a moment before continuing. "I mean I never told this to anyone, not even to the police, because it's crazy."

Dean took one of her hands in his, gripped it, steadied it. "It's ok you can tell me," he reassured.

She gave a slight nod. "He said he'd seen her, seen Emma, said that's who he'd been spending time with." She pinned his gaze again. "But that's crazy right because she was dead?"

"Crazy," Dean agreed.

"And then later that day he was dead and I never got chance to. . .." Tiffany grabbed her purse and pulled out a wad of tissues using one to wipe the tears that were now most definitely falling. Under normal circumstances Dean might have taken advantage of the opportunity to comfort her but too much of what she had said was ringing alarm bells in his head and he had to get out of here and go check on Sam.

"Look," he said, thinking fast, "I'm sure that what he was going through was just a delayed effect of the grief that he would've gotten over. It's just a shame that he never got the chance to." He looked at his watch doing a fake double take. "Hey I. . er. .gotta be going." He pushed his chair back. "Is there somewhere I can drop you off? I mean I don't want to leave you. . ."

Dean was making it look for all the world like he was some heartless pig who just couldn't deal with a crying girl and couldn't wait to escape, and Tiffany bought it. "No," she said wiping at the tears; her tone becoming a little frosty. "I'll make it home just fine thank you."

"Good, I'm glad," Dean stated standing and inching away as he spoke "See you around sometime." As he hurried for the door and a rapid exit the irony that he really did need to hurry wasn't lost on him.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Dean went through the motions when he arrived back at the motel, checking the room first, then the motel itself, maybe his brother had gone for ice or a soda or a coffee at the nearby diner? It took about five minutes of adrenaline pumping, heavy breathing running around, and neither the adrenaline nor the heavy breathing were a by-product of the running, for him to establish that Sam wasn't there. Another few minutes of questioning the desk clerk established that Sam had left about five minutes after he had and then all he could do was return to the room. He had no clue which direction his brother had gone in; he'd exhausted the chances that his cell was on on the way back from the interview with Tiffany. So there was nothing left to do but wait for Sam to come back.

He dropped heavily onto the bed in the middle of the room, a room that seemed almost as empty as his insides.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Denial**

Dean wasn't sure how long he sat just waiting, worrying. He ran through a hundred things that he could do, any one of which might help him locate Sam, but the bottom line was if he did any one of them there were at least ninety-nine other options that he should be doing instead, because it was one of them that would actually lead to his brother. Not to mention the fact that most of those hundred things involved him leaving the room and if he left the room he might miss Sam coming back, and he was still certain that Sam was coming back. They weren't quite at the 'find him brutally murdered' stage yet. This thing, whatever it was, seemed to like toying with its victims first and it had only just started in on Sam.

So he was confident, no, he was damn sure that Sam was coming back here tonight. If he hadn't been then he would have been out playing the odds, a hundred to one against or not.

After the first half hour he managed to reign in the fear and the frustration enough to try to put the time to good use. They needed answers and they needed them fast. If this was some sort of spirit he needed to find out whose, so that he could salt and burn its bony ass before it had a chance to hurt Sam. Amend that, before it had time to hurt Sam any further- yeah, he knew exactly what Tiffany had meant about looking into someone's eyes and seeing their pain, more so now than even just after Jessica had died. He'd seen that pain this morning, seen his brother hurting, seen how much this was tearing. . .Dammit! He needed to focus.

Chances were that it wasn't a spirit, they'd never come across a haunting like this. Ghosts were usually attached to a thing or a place not a feeling. Whatever this was it seemed to feed on grief. So if it wasn't a ghost what was it? The only way to find out was to do some research. Not his forte but he could do a passable job when it was required. He'd had to handle it while Sam was at college. He moved to the bag on the bed and pulled out one of the volumes they'd picked up at the local library as well as a less well kept tome that his dad had acquired at some point in their hunting. Pulling up a chair at the table he began to leaf through the pages looking for any references that might be relevant.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Sam had a perfect afternoon, the sort of perfect afternoon that you only saw in the chick flicks that Dean, though claiming he wouldn't be caught dead watching, knew a remarkable amount about. Sam was sure that Dean had been 'persuaded' by a pretty face and a promise of something more, to sit through far more than he would ever admit to, and there was a reason the chick flicks were like they were.

Sam's day was living proof of it, all those romantic walks, and lying on rugs staring at the sky. All of those moments where pleasure was depicted as a soft caress or a sniff of hair, holding hands, giggling like a big kid, chasing after each other in a race where one of you cheated remorselessly. Sam did all these things, enjoyed all these things, lost himself in the beauty and the romance, wrapped his arms in soft embraces around the woman he loved. Macho be damned, men may not admit it but they wanted those feelings, that connection just as much as any starry eyed teen girl.

The day was perfect but he knew that it had to end, knew that Jessica had to leave him, and as she walked away the pain cut deeper than any knife. The grief and sense of loss tangled his insides and tore at his soul as he lost her

Again.

He stood and watched, tears falling freely.

She was dead again.

SUPERNATURAL SUPERNATURAL

By the time Dean heard the handle turn he was literally contemplating climbing the walls, scouting out finger holds in the slightly flaky plaster, as his eyes scanned up as far as the ceiling, of course at that point he'd have to go all ninja spider monkey to get any further, and it probably wouldn't help with the antsy feeling anyway. This was the sort of crawling anxiety that you needed to climb out of your own skin to get rid of. That image only brought him fairly disgusting memories of discarded shapeshifter flesh, so he was quite glad when the interruption came.

He was on his feet staring by the time Sam had taken a step through the door. Not quite sure how to control the conflict between pissed, frustrated and relieved. Anger won in the first instance, because if there was even the slightest chance that this wasn't what it seemed, and his brother had left him sitting stewing for the last three hours for anything other than a weird demon/spirit episode, then he had every right to not just be pissed but to punch him out. "Sam, where the hell have you been?"

Sam took a slight step backwards at the unexpected confrontation. "Hello, to you to," he replied meeting the anger with a polite sarcasm. He stepped further into the room, angling his path toward the bed so that he would not have to pass Dean.

Dean took another step towards him. "Just answer the damn question." Dean bit back the frustration. "You cried off the interview because you were too tired. You're supposed to have been getting some rest. So where have you been?"

"I went for a walk to try to clear my head." Sam shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it onto the faded quilt.

"Where?" Dean persisted.

Sam looked at his brother, his own annoyance at Dean's attitude starting to show "Not that it's any of your business but I went out by the Lake, OK?"

Dean shook his head "No, it's not OK," it's far from OK, "but I'll let that pass" In his head he began scanning his internal map, trying to remember the location of the lake, judge the distance, at least 3 miles if his memory served, which it should do. One thing that Dean had been taught to do from a young age was to familiarize himself with his surroundings, know where things were, know the best escape routes. "Were you alone?" This question was asked in slightly softer tones.

Sam felt the presence at his back, soft contact all the way down, a gentle lean on his shoulder, warm breath tickling his neck, a whisper. 'Don't tell him,' a soft kiss on his earlobe. 'Don't tell him, he doesn't need to know.' And then the warmth of the touch was gone leaving an icy emptiness behind.

"Sam," Dean tried to pull his brother's focus back from wherever it had drifted to.

Sam met his gaze.

"Were you alone?" Dean asked again.

The anger flared in Sam's eyes. "Since when have you been my keeper?"

Since forever, or hadn't you noticed?

Sam didn't seem to get the bitter cut to his question and Dean did a nice job of not flinching at the harsh words. Sam pushed past his brother intent on heading for the bathroom. "I don't need you're permission to go out and I sure as Hell don't need you questioning me when I come back."

Dean grabbed his arm as he went past, it was enough to stop Sam, he didn't resist.

"It's a simple enough question," Dean's tone was much softer now. "Or is there a reason you don't want to answer?" Sam didn't move, didn't turn around. "I know that you don't have to answer," he said reasonably. "I just want to know. Were you alone?" Sam still didn't move, didn't shake off his brother's loose grip on his arm, didn't answer. "Because there's somethin' going on with you here Sam and it's scaring the life outta me. So just tell me. Were you alone?"

"Yes," the reply was softly spoken. Now Sam moved, gently shaking himself loose of his brother's grip. He turned to look at Dean, facing him with the lie. "Yes I was alone. Now if you don't mind I'd like to get cleaned up."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean forced a nonchalance, an indifference into the reply that he didn't feel. He stood still, watching the closed door long after Sam shut it behind him.

At least he knew where he stood now. Knew that whatever it was it was up to him to stop it. Sam, might still be able to help but would he be able to trust that help? Because he knew one more thing for sure, Sam had just lied to him.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Dean surreptitiously popped another caffeine pill and washed it down with coffee. He resisted the temptation to rub at scratchy eyes, knowing by recent experience that it would make things worse. Not that he should have needed that because he'd pulled all night surveillance many times before, but it seemed that it was only the experience from a few minutes ago that he was learning by since it hadn't stopped him rubbing and regretting.

He'd spent the whole night awake, not that he'd let Sam know that was his intention. He'd hit the books and the internet for a while, letting Sam help him, filling him in on only some of the details that Tiffany had given to him, by the time they both turned in they still had nothing. Monsters that fed on grief didn't tend to go on to kill the ones they were feeding on, at least not by alternately beating, as with Matt, and stabbing, as with Simon, them to death, and what was with the 'appearing to them as the dead girlfriends first' bit? Wouldn't that lessen the grief?

That was one of the parts that Dean kept to himself. He wasn't a hundred percent sure why. In fact on a couple of occasions he thought about throwing it out there. See if Sam responded with a 'Hey you know what, now you've reminded me I did see my dead girlfriend Jessica today,' but truth was he was afraid. Afraid that if he pushed Sam into revealing something, or let him know that he was more suspicious, then Sam might push him away even more, and at the moment staying close seemed to be about the best that he could do.

So, he'd pretended to turn in, lay quietly until he was reasonably sure that his brother was asleep, then he'd padded softly back across to the small wooden table and powered up the laptop, intent on running more searches to keep him awake whilst he watched his brother sleep.

For the first time in four nights Sam had slept relatively peacefully. No nightmares plagued him and sent him fighting the sheets to wake in a cold sweat. Just the odd adjustment of position that creaked the cheap motel room bedsprings and had Dean holding his breath until he settled again. He'd slept and he looked a whole helluva lot better for it, but Dean. . .

"Man, you look like Hell. You know that right?" Sam asked.

"Like you're the poster boy for good health," Dean growled into his coffee.

Sam shrugged, "Maybe not but I look a lot better than you."

Dean fought back a yawn, and rolled his neck and shoulders to try to clear out the kinks. Sam was about to make another comment when the waitress interrupted them. "What can I get you boys this morning?"

"Just some toast for me." Sam gave his order and looked across at Dean who didn't really seem to even have noticed her, which given the cut of her short outfit, and her long shapely legs was unusual for him.

"And for you," the waitress asked when Dean didn't offer a response.

"He'll have the double. . ."

"Just toast, thanks," Dean interrupted much to Sam's surprise, as Dean finally tuned back in on the conversation, "and could I get some more coffee," he said holding up his half empty cup. "Thanks," he flashed her the best smile he could manage, which was still a lot better than most men even on their best days.

The waitress gave a slight scowl and went to retrieve her pot. She had already topped Dean up twice in the ten minutes he'd been in.

"So, what gives?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean broke off from downing the rest of his coffee to give him a bewildered look.

"You're drinking coffee like some sort of caffeine junkie," Sam leaned forward slightly, "and yesterday you finish two double breakfasts, now you just want toast?"

"Like you said, I didn't get much sleep, I'm just tired," and worried as hell that some malevolent spirit is going to carve you up like sushi when it's finished toying with you. "A little coffee and I'll be fine." Dean paused for a moment. "Seriously, I'm OK, Matt's friend Pete works at the garage round the corner. We'll finish up here and stroll over to have a talk to him." Dean gave a much brighter smile as the waitress returned first with the coffee and then the toast, for his part Sam put his hand over his own cup when she tried to refill it. He figured Dean was drinking enough for the both of them.

Dean was on his second piece of toast when Sam made the suggestion, calm and casual, nothing out of the ordinary. He spoke as though he'd just thought of the idea, but Dean had been waiting for it, not sure how he would play things if it didn't come.

"Look, if you want to go back to the motel room and get a little more rest then I'm sure I could handle Pete on my own." Sam paused to take a sip from his cup, he sounded so reasonable. "I mean you look beat, and I still owe you one for taking Tiffany yesterday."

Dean tempered his reaction; he couldn't afford to appear over eager. "No, that's OK a little more coffee and I'll be fine."

"Dude, any more caffeine and you'll be getting the DTs." Sam shifted in his seat. "Seriously, I can handle this on my own. You should get some rest."

Dean paused, looking down at the table as though he was considering the idea, after what he figured was the right amount of deliberation time, during which he faked stifling another yawn, he finally went with a reluctant. "If you're sure"

He walked until he was sure that Sam had quit watching him, rounded the corner at the edge of the motel reception and then flattened back against the wood, giving it another few seconds before peering out. He needed to be sure, but he also couldn't leave it too long and risk losing Sam's trail.

Sam for his part was pleased with himself. He'd expected to have more trouble ditching his brother, especially after the inquisition he'd given him when he'd got back the day before. He wasn't sure what had gotten into Dean, I mean he was normally fairly protective, yeah, but it had been a while since he'd questioned his every move. Maybe he'd try and have a talk with him later, for now he had to get to his meeting with Jessica. He hoped she'd show up earlier today so that he could spend more time with her. He'd had to wait nearly two hours for her arrival the day before, and that was forever when every second was precious.

Dean had good hunting skills, but dark forests and deserted creepy buildings, not to mention smelly caves and sewers, were somehow a lot easier than tailing someone in broad daylight through the streets of a mid-sized town. It did not take long to establish, however, that Sam had no intention of heading for the garage where Pete worked.

Dean had to hang back quite a way in order to not be seen, and he thought he'd lost Sam a couple of times. Fortunately when you were six foot five and wore your hair in a brown mop you weren't that easy to lose. Still Dean cursed softly to himself when Sam entered the park, wide open fields with neatly tended flower beds and sporadic trees did not an easy tail job make. Yeah he could see his brother from a greater distance but that meant Sam could see him too. It also meant he had to let him get further ahead before he could risk moving forward to catch up.

Dean was a little out of breath when he reached the top of the stone steps that Sam had disappeared down a few minutes earlier. He'd had to positively sprint across a wide field to get here but now he slowed, hanging back from the edge just in case his brother had stopped at the bottom. Fortunately there was a neat hedge running down the side, trimmed neatly back from the hand rail and it allowed a little cover. He peered cautiously down and wasn't sure whether he was more relieved or concerned that he didn't see Sam at all. There were at least two paths, again hedged, that he could have taken at the bottom. He put his foot on the first step and that was when he felt the hand, shoving violently in the small of his back. He didn't have time to turn, to see his mystery assailant as he toppled forward, his side making a crunching impact with the stone. His hands moving protectively up around his head as he went into a deliberate roll to try to minimize the damage, reduce the pain. He almost made it, almost rolled himself out of it but a slight misjudgment had his forehead making contact with the corner of the bottom step and then the lights went out.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam shook his head, trying to clear the fog, his vision gradually clearing to take in the figure lying on the ground. His instinct was to help; the person was unmoving, injured. He'd already taken a couple of steps when he realised that there was something frighteningly familiar, that the clothes were identical to the ones Dean'd been wearing when he'd left him a few minutes. . .but that was crazy, Dean was back at the motel resting. It couldn't be. He was. . .

"Sam?"

Sam turned to see Jessica and, despite his concerns, he managed to give her a smile. "Hey Jess."

She stepped rapidly toward him and for a moment he couldn't think straight as she pulled him into an embrace and kissed him lightly. "You ready for our day?" She asked smiling up at him, her arms wrapped around his back, her body pressed against his. "I can hardly wait. I've so missed you." She leaned forward and began a fuller kiss.

Sam began to melt into it, began to enjoy. . . No, there was something wrong, something he should be. . . He broke off the kiss, maintaining the embrace but leaning his head back. There was something he. . . He began to turn his head; a soft hand on his chin stopped the movement, pulled his head back.

"Hey, come on," Jess said, the smile leaking into her tone. "In case you haven't noticed I'm here, not back there." She gestured behind him with a slight jerk of her head. "So what do I have to do to keep your attention?" There was a coy smile before she gave him another light kiss, biting at his lower lip as she pulled away from it. "Because," another kiss, "whatever it is," another, "I'll do it."

Sam began to respond, his mind fogging. His thoughts only on the warm body pressed against his, a soft touch caressed his cheek, warm lips met his, but. . .No! This time he let go; pulled back sharply enough to startle her so that her hold on him was lost. One word echoed through his mind 'Dean.'

He turned and this time there was no mistaking the figure on the floor. There were people gathered around him now, helping him, helping his brother. He had to go to him, had to find out what had happened, what was wrong. He took one slow step, fighting an inertia that he couldn't explain. He needed to hurry, needed to get to. . . .

"Sam?"

He looked back at her; she looked confused, hurt.

"I thought you wanted to spend the day with me?" She took a step towards him. "Don't you?"

He did, he wanted to so much, the compulsion stronger than anything he'd ever felt. He should go with her, have another wonderful day. It was hard to think about anything else, and he almost turned back, almost went with her, but. . .Dean? He dragged his gaze back to his brother, felt the anguish stabbing at his gut.

He needed to go to his brother.

He needed to go with Jessica.

He needed. . .

She'd stepped up behind him, was holding his arm with both hands, one on his wrist the other his elbow. Her chin rested on his shoulder. She whispered in his ear. If you don't come now we may never get another chance." The words were soft, a sweet mixture of promise and threat, anguish tore at his insides, but his eyes were now focussed on his brother.

He didn't look at her again, knew that he couldn't, if he did then he might not be able to stop himself from going with her, and that was something he did not understand because he knew unequivocally that he had to help Dean. How could he even think of doing anything else? "I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's my brother, I have to help my brother." He started to pull away from her. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

He'd taken several steps and so did not hear the even more softly spoken, "you will be."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

The park was not by any means busy this early in the day, but the steps were on a central route and most people who crossed through the park came this way. The first person at Dean's side was a jogger and it didn't take him long to establish that Dean was more than just winded by the fall. Lying on his side with one arm trapped underneath, blood was clearly seeping from a cut on his forehead and the skin around it was already swelling.

The jogger tried to rouse Dean and when he got no response he pulled out his cell and called 911, by this time the spectacle had attracted a small crowd, a young couple, a mother and child, an old woman walking her dog.

Sam had to almost push his way through, trying to ignore the speculative questions and comments.

"Oh my!"

"What happened, did anyone see what happened?"

"Look at all that blood?"

"Mommy, is the man dead, mommy?"

"No, he's not dead sweetheart," pause. "He isn't is he?"

"Excuse me," Sam said, dodging past the old woman, "Excuse me," again, it was hard to maintain any order of politeness. "What are you doing?" He asked sharply as he reached Dean only to see the jogger rifling through his brother's pockets.

The man looked up startled at the sharp tone. He began to stand. "I was just looking for some form of ID. Do you know this man?"

Sam knelt and the man dropped back down with him. "He's my brother," Sam stated, without looking up again, his entire focus now on Dean, as he checked his pulse, relieved to find that it was clear and strong. He scanned his brother, noting the blood, and the head injury. Then he began to gently roll him, taking care to support his neck and keep his spine straight.

"I don't think you should move him," the jogger said, "I've called an ambulance, the medical center is just round the corner. They should be here soon."

"It's OK," Sam said, still not taking his eyes from his brother's pained features. "I know what I'm doing." He shifted Dean's arm from underneath him and noted the slight flinch from Dean in response to the movement. The response to pain was a good sign, but it was also a clear indicator that Dean had injured his arm in some way. "Dean," he leant over speaking clearly. "Dean, can you hear me?" Sam's concern deepened at the lack of response. He looked up now, expectantly searching for the paramedics. Short of shaking Dean awake, and with possible injuries to his neck and back that didn't seem like a good idea, there were few other options. Now it was a waiting game. There was no sign of the promised medics so Sam concentrated instead on the crowd of onlookers, a couple more people had added to the gawkers. "Did anyone see what happened?" he asked looking expectantly around. There were negative murmurs and headshakes from all but one young woman. She had seen something, Sam was sure of that, but she said nothing.

Dean let out a low moan and for the moment Sam's attention focussed back on his brother. "Dean?"

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

She couldn't believe that he'd walked away. It wasn't possible, shouldn't have been possible. The others had had no control, no will of their own. How had he. . .? She watched as he moved to his brother's side, her eyes narrowing to slits, defocusing. She could almost see the bond between them like it was a physical, tangible thing. His emotions were not hers to control; they were too strongly bound to the one on the floor. She had miscalculated with this one, expected too much of him, but it had been deliciously sweet. No, he would take more effort, much more effort, but he was worth it. The emotions were so powerful, the vulnerability profound, and now she knew his limitations she could plan for them. She gave a deep sigh and turned and walked away.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Dean forced sluggish eyes to open, all too used to his head clearing in the middle of a fight, adrenaline shot through his system as he let the fear response trigger. He tried to move and scan his surroundings before his vision had fully cleared, doing his best to ignore the pounding ache in his head and swallow down the nausea. Often his life and the life of others depended on his ability to recover and react, so he had honed the talent, no time for lying down on the job.

"Dean?"

He heard his brother's familiar tones, sensed his closeness, turning to see the familiar outline, the shaggy hair not looking that different even when fuzzy and out of focus. He relaxed. It was enough. If Sam was there, with him, there couldn't be too much danger, or Sam would be dealing with that, not nurse-maiding him. No, if Sam was here it meant the danger was over, at least for now. The tension drained out of his muscles, all except his left arm, with that, he grabbed clumsily at his brother's, finally snagging his sleeve and holding on to it. He needed the reassurance of his brother's presence. There was a strong sense of foreboding, something about Sam that made the need to connect even more compelling than usual, and, if he was called about his girly need to actually touch his brother later, then he could always blame the head injury, but for now he didn't care. "Sam?"

Sam let out a short sigh and smiled down at his brother. "Just take it easy."

Dean ignored him and tried to sit up, but a wave of vertigo sent him straight back.

Sam grabbed him, turning a fall into gentle lowering. "I said take it easy," he stated reprovingly.

"Huh-huh," Dean said closing his eyes and gasping slightly as he waited for the world to stop spinning. "I might just do that." He opened his eyes again. "What happened?"

Sam shook his head. "You fell down some steps, but I don't. . ." the girl knew something Sam was sure of that, but he. . .ice cold water slid down his skin. He didn't know anything. He remembered having breakfast with Dean and then. . .then he was standing looking at Dean at the bottom of the steps and. . .then he was here by Dean's side, asking what had happened. "I didn't see what happened," he finished quietly.

Sam felt gentle hands resting on his shoulders. "Sir, if we could ask you to move. We're here to help." Sam looked up, breaking out of the semi-daze that had thoughts and questions tumbling over each other. He met the gaze of a second paramedic, kneeling across from him at Dean's side, he hadn't even registered their approach, then he turned his head to look at the man who had spoken.

"Yeah, sure" he said moving to the side, Dean's grip on his coat meant that he couldn't back fully out of the way. He watched, still in a semi daze as the paramedics began their work, talking to Dean and assessing him at the same time.

He should have been surprised by Dean's cooperation, maybe worried that if Dean was cooperating with the paramedics then he must be badly hurt. Normally Dean'd be refusing treatment and demanding the release to sign. He should have realised that Dean wasn't doing any of those things because he was too busy watching him, but his detached state was what Dean was watching, what Dean was worrying about, was why he didn't notice.

Dean was on the gurney and they were ready to transport him before he offered any sort of objection. "Wait, I'm only going if my brother comes with me," he stated.

"Not a problem," one of the paramedics answered, then looked across at his partner. "OK let's move."

The group set off and Sam had taken a couple of paces before his churning thought processes finally caught up. He was trying so hard to remember, to understand the gaps, the chunks of time, the how he got from place to place that was missing from his memory. There was something he had to find out before they left here, before he lost one of the potential puzzle pieces that might help with his fragmented memory, with an understanding of how Dean had been hurt.

"Wait," Sam said. "I won't be a minute I just need to. . ." and then he pulled his sleeve free, turning to search for the young woman. He spotted her leaving from the back of the crowd and sprinted after her.

The paramedics began to move off again. "Hey you heard him," Dean said. "We need to wait."

"But Sir," the paramedic began.

Dean forced himself to sit up painfully, forgetting for a moment his injured wrist that they'd put a light bandage on, he used it to lever himself up. He drew in a sharp breath at the pain and simultaneously realised that moving his head wasn't such a good idea either. "He said give him a minute, or you can get me a release and leave both of us."

The paramedic looked at his partner, who gave a shrug. "OK, we'll give him a minute."

Sam knew the moment she realised he was coming after her, because she began to speed up, her body tensing as if he had frightened her.

"Hey wait up," he shouted, but his words had the opposite effect and if anything she began to speed up. Not that it did her any good, Sam caught up with her easily. He moved past and in front of her blocking her path.

"It's OK," she said nervously. "I won't tell anyone, you don't need to hurt me."

Sam's look of confusion was clearly not what she expected.

"Hey, I don't know who you think I am," Sam said, "but I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just interested in what you saw. You did see what happened didn't you?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Then tell me," Sam requested. "Please, that's my brother. I need to know what happened."

It was the young woman's turn to look confused. "Is this some sort of joke?"

Sam shook his head. "No joke, please, just tell me what happened?"

The girl studied his face for a moment, not sure how to react to the fact that he genuinely didn't seem to know. "You pushed him," she stated. "You pushed him down the steps."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Together**

Dean watched, concentrated, attempting to follow his brother's movements, but it was damned hard to force his eyes to focus on movement. Nausea returned with a vengeance, maybe it was because he was no longer lying down, not because he was blinking blood from his eyes and forcing a focus that the pounding headache and blurring vision didn't want him to have. Not that it mattered; he wasn't going to take his eyes off his brother regardless of how he felt. Sam needed his protection. So he ignored all the physical discomfort, refusing to even process it as he concentrated his attention on his brother.

Sam for his part was telegraphing his intentions so that even a kid could follow them. It was easy to spot his target. Dean watched as Sam approached the young woman. He watched her tense, watched her wary reaction. Not a normal reaction to Sam, he was the friendly, cuddly one. The one people, and particularly young woman, generally greeted with warmth, not with an edge of fear, and this woman was definitely showing fear, even after he started speaking to her, his non-threatening open-handed gestures designed to reassure. He was asking her something, trying to find out. . . . and then she hit him, not literally but with words, words that had a stronger effect than any physical blow.

Sam stumbled back a little before recovering enough to just stand, stunned, unable to move.

Dean was ready to get up, to leave the gurney, to sign any damn release they wanted, because his brother clearly needed him. His memory had cleared enough for him to know that he couldn't leave him, that he couldn't let him out of his sight. He started to swing his legs down to the floor, when the hands of one of the paramedics settled on his shoulders.

"Whoa, there. You need to lie back down sir."

Dean dragged his gaze away from Sam long enough to tell this guy. . .

"My partner there will get your brother to come with us sir," he stated, nodding up at the other paramedic, "but you really need to lie back down for me."

"No," Dean shook his head, a mistake that forced him to draw a deep breath. "I'm sorry, get me whatever release you need me to sign. I need to. . ." he looked across to where the second paramedic was rapidly closing on Sam's position. The young woman had already started to move away, backing off a few paces before turning.

"Kid brother?" the paramedic asked.

The question was enough to draw Dean's gaze back to the man who looked to be around his age. "Yeah," he replied.

"You two are close," this time it was a statement not a question. "Got a younger sister myself, always getting herself into 'situations.'" The man smiled. "What I can never figure is how come when she gets herself into these things it's always me that feels responsible for getting her out of them. Do you know what I mean?"

Dean thought for a moment. This guy had no idea. In his world a 'situation' meant breaking up with a boyfriend who wouldn't take no for an answer, or dinging the family car and not knowing how to tell their parents. No spirits, no demons, no imminent death no. . .

He gave his best attempt at a smile back, at least the guy was trying; he had a lot of sympathy with that stance. "Yeah, tell me about it," he replied. "So you know why I've got to go." He picked at the IV stuck in the back of his hand. "It'll make less of a mess if you help me get this out," he said, pushing himself to his feet.

It was a mistake. It was only the paramedic steadying him that prevented an undignified drop to the floor. With help he was guided back so that the gurney caught behind his knees and he sank back onto it, ridiculously needy of its support. He concentrated on evening out his breathing, on not bringing back up his meagre breakfast. His vision blinked out before catching again. Dammit! He needed to get to Sam.

"Sir?"

Somewhere in his mind Sam registered that this wasn't the first time he'd been addressed, the fuzzy buzzing that had barely impacted his senses, were attempts to communicate with him. He knew that much, even though they hadn't broken through the haze until now. He drew in a shaky breath, forced himself to focus because he knew there was some urgent reason why he should, despite the body blow to his psyche that the young woman's words had delivered, the echo of her voice bouncing around his head even as he turned to look at the paramedic.

". . ."

"Sir, we need you to come with us. Your brother. . ."

And that was enough to snap him back. Dean! Whatever was going on here he had somehow hurt Dean and his only priority should be making sure that his brother was all right. He turned such an intense gaze on the young paramedic that it disconcerted him and he stumbled momentarily over his words.

"Y . .your brother," the paramedic repeated, "Won't let us take him in unless you come. . ." He didn't get any further Sam had spotted Dean's failed attempt to rise and was already moving back towards him at a half run.

"Dean?"

Sam's hand was on his shoulder, his concerned questioning bringing Dean's focus back. He opened his eyes ignoring the rolling nausea, as he literally grabbed at his brother's arm, not caring that the desperation of the action was clear for all to see. "Sam, you need to stay with me," he stated. "Do you understand?" His eyes roamed his brother's features. Looking for a reply beyond anything that words could convey. "You need to stay with me."

"But I. . ." Sam was struggling to cope; emotional responses were tearing at his insides. He still couldn't quite grasp how he could have hurt his brother, but he knew that he had, knew that the blood and the fear and the desperate need were all somehow his fault, but he didn't know how or why and worse he did not know if he would hurt Dean again. If he couldn't remember, if he didn't know why, how could he stop. . .

"Just stay with me," Dean stated, "and everything will be OK, I promise." He delivered the line with the total conviction that he knew his brother needed. It was a promise that he didn't know if he could keep, that he was afraid that one day he wouldn't be able to keep, but it was a promise that he had been making since Sam was an infant, and if he ever couldn't keep it, it would be because he'd died trying.

For right now Sam needed that strength, needed that reassurance. Whatever this was, however bad it was they would get through it together. "Sam?" he questioned.

Sam gave his brother's hand a slight squeeze. "I'll stay with you," he confirmed, still not entirely sure that that was a good idea. What the hell had he done. . .?

"Sir, we really need to get out of here," the paramedic had waited for the opening, he wasn't sure what was going on but he figured that he had given these two all of the leeway he could. He wanted to help Dean, but they could get another call at any time. They needed to finish this one and get the guy to the clinic. There was clearly more going on here than just a simple fall. Sure, he had had people refuse to be taken in without some member of their family going along for the ride before now. They'd even had one or two refuse treatment but somehow this was different. This was an altogether new kind of desperation.

Sam turned to nod at the paramedic. "Let's go," he said.

They moved off Sam still holding tightly onto Dean's hand or was that Dean holding on to Sam?

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Dean woke with a start, Adrenaline flooded his system provoking a near panic response as his heart rate kicked up and he blinked his eyes to open. He forced the breath from his lungs, pushing himself upright before he was fully conscious. "Sam!" The name ghosted across his lips on the exhale, barely recognisable as a word, the fear of a nearly remembered nightmare, a nightmare that was seated too far in reality, forcing him to gaze frantically around the room until his gaze settled on his brother. 'Sam.'

Sam had his own startled response. He had been flicking absently through a magazine, not even noticing enough to respond to the pictures let alone the text, his thoughts elsewhere, as he tried to piece together the memories of the last day and a half. His last clear recollection was of eating breakfast with Dean, well, Dean had been eating at least, he'd been pushing his food around his plate and then he'd looked up and. . . .then he was staring down at his brother's crumpled body. In between there was . . .nothing? Snatched ghosts of pleasure and happiness and . . love? But how? What?

He scrambled forward, not noticing the forgotten magazine slide to the floor. "Dean, it's OK, I'm here," not that that was OK, after all he was the one who had put Dean here and he didn't know why.

Dean relaxed at the sight of Sam, safe and well. He was all right, for now at least, and for just a few moments he concentrated on himself, evening out his breathing and leaning back into the soft pillows behind him. He glanced around the room they were in. There were three other beds beside the one he occupied, all empty. He took in the bandaging and sling around his arm, as well as the IV that was still attached to his arm. "Hospital?" he asked

"Local clinic," Sam replied. "9 stitches in your forehead, and," he pointed at the arm, anticipating Dean's next question. "It's a bad sprain but not broken."

Dean lifted his good hand up and felt the dressing patch that ran from his hairline, his fingers suddenly moving frantically back.

"Don't worry they didn't touch the hair." Sam stated, with a bemused smile. Only Dean could get himself torn apart and be more worried about what it had done to his looks than the injury, but then his expression sobered. They had more serious things to discuss, like how Dean had been injured in the first place, and what Sam had been doing since yesterday. "Dean, do you remember what happened?"

Dean's fingers slowed and he went to a more tentative exploration of the position of the cut. Yeah he remembered. He remembered the push, he remembered the fall, he remembered the pain, he remembered the fear and the need to protect and. . . "Do you think it'll scar," he asked seriously, ignoring his brother's question completely. "Chicks do love scars, and you'd think with the number of times we get hit I could at least get. . ."

"Dean!"

Dean turned to look into his brother's eyes, clouded with emotion and tearing on the edges.

"Do you remember what happened?" Sam asked plaintively. "Because I'm not the one who got hit on the head and I don't." He looked down at the floor, fighting to maintain some level of control, holding back the tears that didn't seem to want to quit forming at the edges of his vision.

Dean allowed a slight start at his brother's revelation. "I remember," he replied quietly. He drew in a deep breath studying his brother, noting the lines of tension, the fear. "What's the last thing that you. . ."

"The Diner, breakfast. . .yesterday I think?" Sam looked up meeting Dean's gaze again. He shifted back a little in his chair. "After that it's just snatches." His foot began to tap on the floor, bouncing his leg and the hand that rested on it with nervous energy, bottled up frustrations pushing to the surface. "Dean what's going on?" He asked, becoming more agitated with each second. "Why can't I remember anything except. . ."

"Except?"

Sam looked down and to the side. Sorry that he hadn't kept his mouth shut. He didn't really have any clear memories to report. His foot continued to tap nervously.

"Except?" Dean prompted. "Come on you don't start a sentence like that without finishing it."

Sam shook his head, still not looking back at his brother. "Just. . .I don't know. . .feelings I guess." He tried not to acknowledge the blush of embarrassment. "It's like whatever I've been doing I've been incredibly happy, content. . .until. . ." He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence, to acknowledge that those feelings had only been cut off when he'd pushed Dean down the steps. He had no doubt that the young woman had told him the truth; she wasn't faking her fear of him. He had pushed Dean. "Dammit! Why can't I remember? What made me. . .?"

"Hey, calm down." Dean didn't fully understand yet what had his brother so rattled, the memory loss, yes, but somehow there was more. "We'll figure this out. . ."

"Before or after I hurt you again?" Sam almost couldn't take Dean's double take, the puzzlement that settled on his features. Clearly he didn't remember everything. "I pushed you," he stood, unable to contain the pent up frustration any longer. He took a step back. "Down the steps," he pointed at Dean's injuries. "I did this to you."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Dean took a second, just a second to process Sam's confession, before he dismissed it as unimportant. "Hey, it's OK," he stated, watching as his brother shifted his weight from foot to foot, without actually going anywhere. He was becoming increasingly alarmed as Sam pushed rapidly towards panic. He had to diffuse this. "Sam," he waited 'til his brother met his gaze. "I told you, we'll figure this out." He shifted forward on the bed, wincing as the movement jostled his wrist.

Sam almost winced himself, a knife of guilt stabbing directly into his ribcage.

Dean was trying to help, he knew that, but he wasn't. In fact, this understanding, this acceptance without recrimination was making Sam feel worse, much worse. "It's not OK," he ground out, barely able to separate his jaw. He shifted forwards, his agitation now showing in the short jerks of his head and torso as he spoke.

"Sam. . ."

This time Sam ignored him did not meet his gaze, instead he stared at the floor. "It's not OK," he repeated "It won't be OK until we figure out what's happening." The pitch of his voice shifted as his vocal chords tightened in response to the building frustration. "I hurt you Dean," Now his gaze locked on his brother's the intensity linked to the swirling emotion. "And I don't know why. I don't know why I did this to you. I don't know if I'll do it again, maybe worse next time. I don't know. . ."

"Sam stop," Dean commanded, carefully moving forward so that he gave no further outward signs of the pain his injuries were causing.

Sam shut up, holding eye contact for a beat before looking away. It was long enough for him to get the message. 'Don't do this.' He needed to calm himself down, to control his emotions, because his anguish was almost as destructive as what had come before. He drew in several deep breaths, forcing a calm that he still didn't feel, and dropped back down into the chair. He finally met his brother's gaze again, his eyebrows instantly knitting in a frown. "You know what's going on," it was half accusation, half statement.

Dean considered denying it for a moment, glancing around the room as he assessed his brother's likely reaction to truth or denial, finally he settled on truth. Whatever had been influencing Sam for the past day was gone, at least for now. He had Sam back and while he did he could sure use Sam's help in fitting the pieces they had so far together. He fixed his gaze back on his brother. "Some, I think," he stated. "I'll fill you in, but not here."

To his credit Sam didn't protest, desperate as he was for answers he understood the wisdom of waiting. He nodded and stood, "I'll get a nurse."

"No," Dean said quickly, ripping the IV unceremoniously from his arm and standing from the bed. Again he hid any residual dizziness from his brother, not that he wouldn't have tried to do so anyway, but there was nothing like a brother's guilt to allow you to steel your reactions. He clamped his hand down to stop any bleeding from the needle site, looking around the room. "Any idea what they did with my clothes?"

"They're at the nurses' station," Sam stated, giving him a 'if you'd waited you could have had that IV taken out properly without costing any more time' look, that wasn't easy for him to pull off, but Dean got the message, looking a little chagrined as he dropped back down onto the bed. "I'll go get them," Sam added, and headed for the door.

He was almost through when the wave of anxiety hit Dean full force. "Sam," he called his brother back. He couldn't let him leave, couldn't let him out of his sight, because he might not come back, he might. . .

Sam turned, his expression questioning, and waited, but Dean didn't know what to say, how to make his anxiety sound anything less than crazy, and worse it could actually be crazy. He had no idea how long he'd been out for and Sam had sat patiently at his bedside, hadn't tried to sneak off, hadn't been taken away by the ghost of his ex-girlfriend to be ripped to pieces or. . .

"Dean?" Sam had turned fully back now, a deeper concern etching his features. Was Dean actually edging towards panic? His inner self did a mental headshake, no; he must be imagining it. His big brother's emotions were never this clearly on display, at least not unless there was an actual axe-wielding madman with a blade at Sam's throat. Sam had never sensed this much anxiety from his brother when there wasn't such an immediate threat. This was new and he didn't like it.

Dean managed to snap himself back just short of forming nightmare images of what could happen to his brother. "Just. . ."he said hesitantly, swallowing and forcing calm into his tone. "Just don't take all day about it. No stopping to flirt with the nurses." He pulled the back of his gown closed. At what point had he stood again? "These gowns are draughty."

Sam watched his brother for a moment, watched the awkward shift from fear and concern, so real that he could feel its vibrations in the air, to outer calm and nonchalance that characterised his brother's normal interactions with the world. Emotions were pushed down, subsumed, hidden beneath the mask of a truly talented actor. Anyone looking now would think Dean genuinely didn't have a care in the world apart from the draught on his back.

"I'll be as quick as I can," Sam stated, not quite as good at covering his true emotions. He stared for a moment more before hurrying off.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Dean opened the door to the motel room and fell wearily through it, well maybe not a fall but certainly a controlled stagger. He was sure he had actually felt every new bruise developing as they walked back from the clinic, and there were a lot of them, mainly down his left side where he'd first impacted with the stone steps. Each of them contributed with a sharp pain, dull ache or stiff soreness as he walked. His wrist was throbbing mercilessly, but he supposed that was at least in part because he'd insisted on taking it out of the sling the moment they'd left the clinic, self inflicted and therefore not deserving of sympathy, not that Dean did sympathy, but that wasn't the worst of it anyway, that would be the headache. His brain felt slightly too big for his skull and tight bands of pain pressed in, crushing his thoughts and occasionally spiking to steal his focus.

He'd had worse, he knew that, but generally he only got this beat up when he was defeating whatever sorry-assed spirit or demon they were dealing with, mostly he had time to recover a little before heading off on his next hunt, mostly, by the time the adrenaline wore off and the injuries made themselves known, it was all over. Didn't always work out that way though and this was one of those occasions where he was just going to have to stop behaving like a girl, suck it up and get on with it, because, however much pain he was in, he had a brother to save.

Still, he was regretting refusing to get a cab back from the clinic. Dean had realised it was a mistake within a block, not that he was going to admit it. After all he'd been the one to insist that they walked, he'd needed time to get his thoughts in order, to figure out just what he was going to tell Sam, and hadn't that walk been peachy, pain and broody brother for company all the way back. Not that he could blame Sam for his broodiness, not this time, pushing him down a flight of stone steps was a helluva thing to be dealing with, especially when you had no clue why you'd done it.

Worse was to come though, halfway back Sam had seemed to notice his discomfort and had got all 'hovery,' something that Dean could just about take from cute nurses but not from his brother, so he'd balked at the attention, pushed Sam away

"Did I grow two heads or something, while I was asleep in that clinic?" Dean stopped, forcing his brother to stop with him. "Cos if I didn't then I need you to stop staring."

"What, I can't be concerned that you look so green that your head spinning around and projectile vomit wouldn't surprise me at this point?" Sam asked.

"I wouldn't spin my head because that would spoil my aim," Dean deadpanned, "which would be for your shoes."

Suddenly Sam was more serious, dropping the banter. "So vomiting is an option then?"

Damn! So much for distraction.

"Bite me."

Dean had continued walking and Sam had jogged the few steps needed to catch up with him, and it was back to a broody silence which was now peppered with concerned glances, Dean's favourite combination.

The door to the motel had thus been a triply welcome sight. He could stop moving and jostling his injuries and more importantly he might be able to persuade Sam to drop it with the guilt, attentiveness combination.

He was halfway to the bed when he realised that something was wrong. That Sam was no longer glued to his shoulder, wasn't behind him, wasn't even in the room yet. There was the adrenaline spike he needed, accompanied by a characteristic twist of his gut as he sprinted the few steps back to the door, pain and injuries forgotten for the moment. "Sam," he called out as he moved. He stopped almost as abruptly as he'd started; Sam was standing just a couple of feet from the door.

He was there.

He was safe.

Dean was just about to chastise himself for overreacting when he noticed the stillness, the fixed, almost glazed expression. "Sam," he said closing the short distance between them, but his brother didn't seem to hear him. Dean's gut twisted again and he glanced across the parking lot, trying to follow the direction of his brother's gaze

Sam watched her move, her hair blowing out haphazardly as the breeze caught it, her blouse shimmering against her torso for the same reason. She smiled at him, not a full blown beam, but a small shy upturn of her lips; her head was tilted at a slight angle and she had to look through thick lashes at him. He caught his breath at the intimacy of the look even at this distance, and a warmth and peace settled over and around him like a blanket.

Jessica, God she was beautiful, she was. . . Something blocked his view and for a moment he lost sight of her and he didn't want that, couldn't handle not seeing her. A frisson of panic washed through his senses until he moved, shifted around the obstruction, and there she was. He relaxed instantly on seeing her, but it didn't last, the obstruction was back. Anger spiked and this time he pushed the shadowed object. It had the desired effect, it, whatever it was, was shoved to the side out of his way, and he could see her again, could drink in her beauty, could go to her. He took a step forward.

He could go to her. He paused on the edge of moving again as a tiny doubt crawled across the back of his mind. There was. . . and then something grabbed him, a hand, no two, latching around his arm, intent on stopping him, on keeping him from her. It brought the anger rushing back, much stronger this time. Nothing would stop him. The desire to go to her, to hold her, to kiss her was caught in the rush of emotion that swept over him like a tide. Need pulled him in towards her, even as something physical held him back.

He looked down and now he could just make out the shape of the hands that gripped his arm. The instincts of a fighter trained from childhood kicked in and he grabbed, viscously twisting the offending limbs as he broke their grip on him. He was ready to move again as soon as he was free, but there was something. . .and then the cry of pain ripped through his perception of the world like a tear in a canvas print..

He blinked rapidly and each time he did so his view of his surroundings shifted, objects that he somehow knew were there but hadn't seen came into focus, registered on a confused consciousness.

It. . .no. . he had let go of him, doubling over, curling around its. . .no. . .his arm, letting out another slightly strangled curse. . .Dean?

"Sonofabitch!" the curse was barely recognisable, agony wrapped around the tone, breath sucked in remorselessly either side of it. Dean couldn't help it, the pain shooting up from his wrist was agonising, sending white burning spikes into his already overtaxed brain.

Sam's unresponsiveness despite repeatedly calling his name had worried him. When Sam had shoved him out of the way and taken a step it had terrified him. Without thinking he'd grabbed Sam's arm because he needed to stop him. He'd grabbed and gripped tight with both hands, the adrenaline allowing him to act despite his injury, and he would have paid for just that, but Sam had. . .Sam had. . . He fought his way through the pain, vision swimming. He didn't have time for this, didn't have time.

He had to stop his brother.

"Dean?"

Dean looked up through burning tears that sat obstinately without falling, obscuring his vision. Sam's water blurred face was level with his, looking concerned, but more importantly the vacant, distant expression had gone. The cold dispassionate eyes that Sam had looked through him with as he'd twisted his injured wrist had been replaced by the compassionate, caring ones that Dean was always trying to avoid looking into, especially when their concern was for him, because that wasn't the right way round. He could be, he needed to be concerned for Sam, but it wasn't a two way street, never had been, wasn't going to become one now.

Dean blinked the tears away. "Sammy?" he asked, subconsciously using the longer version of his brother's name, an affectation that always came out when he was worried, and he was worried, worried about Sam.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam confirmed following his brother as he straightened up, not quite fully, Dean still had a slight curl around the injured wrist that was held protectively against his chest.

Sam allowed a little panic to mix in with the concern as he realised he had another hole in his memory. He had no idea why Dean was in such pain again, the last thing he remembered was his brother pushing the motel room door open and now. . . "What happened?"

Dean looked around doing a full 360 degree scan of the surrounding area, whatever, whoever it was that had held his brother in his trance-like state appeared to have gone, or at least they weren't visible now. "Let's get inside," he stated tiredly, this time waiting for his brother to go into the motel room first.

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Watching silently from the corner of a distant building she cursed again. She had almost had him, almost, she had just needed a few more moments for the full effect to have taken place, and then he would have been hers, nothing could have stopped it. She was sure of that. He would have been hers this time.

Then again maybe it wouldn't hurt to make it a little stronger before she tried again.

It occurred to her that she had enjoyed what she had just watched, had enjoyed his pain. Maybe there was a way to make this even better, once he was hers she would see.

She smiled to herself as she turned and walked away.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Dean closed the door gratefully, staring at it for a moment as his hand lingered. It was symbolic of shutting out the world, of shutting out the danger, a lousy, usually relatively flimsy motel room door. That was the closest he and his brother ever got to the feeling of being safe, of being home. He allowed the moment of relief that it brought before he turned to face his brother. Well maybe not face. Sam had stopped only a few paces into the room, his shoulders and back tensed, his fists clenched to the point of digging his nails into his palms. Everything about him radiated tension and fear.

"Sam," Dean tried tentatively, his injured wrist still clutched awkwardly against his chest. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice but he didn't quite manage it.

If Sam heard he made no acknowledgement.

"Sam," Dean tried again taking a step forward, wondering what was going through his brother's head, worried that he might lose him again to whatever was exerting this control over him.

Sam turned his head and Dean felt the scrutiny. Suddenly painfully aware of the way he was cradling his wrist against him. He tried to clear all signs of the pain he was feeling from his face, his wrist throbbing now with a consistent agony that made any sort of control difficult. Still he tried, squaring up his shoulders a little.

Sam felt a fury sweep through him, a fury that he had felt before against anyone or anything that hurt his brother. Only this time he could only direct that fury at himself. He had caused that pain or at least he thought. . .The memories were still not there, but that didn't mean he didn't know that he had. . .just the way Dean looked at him told him that he had. . .Shit.

Sam turned abruptly and strode across the room, heading straight for the bag that was tucked out of the way under Dean's bed. He pulled it out dumping it with some force before pulling open the zip with an equal savagery, anger, frustration and fear driving his movements as he rummaged through the contents until he pulled out the small bottle he had been looking for. He wasn't sure why, but he turned again to face his brother as he twisted off the stopper and then poured the liquid contents down his throat. Not all of it made it and some swirled out of the sides to run dripping from his chin, and still he kept pouring, swallowing as much as he could, bracing himself for the pain he expected but nothing came. The frustration got the better of him and he threw the now empty bottle across the room. It shattered into a thousand pieces before the fragments rained to the floor, and Sam sank down on to the bed.

Dean watched in silence. He knew what his brother was doing. He knew why he was doing it and he felt a little relief. Not that he really believed it was a demon. No, in fact he knew he hadn't believed that, but still having the proof . . . Whatever was controlling Sam it wasn't a demon, but his brother didn't seem so happy with the outcome of his test. Sam was visibly crumbling in front of him, his six-foot plus frame sinking smaller and smaller into the bed.

"Sam?" Dean asked again.

Sam looked up and Dean could see the fear in his eyes.

"I hurt you again," Sam stated. It wasn't a question. He shook his head. "I don't remember doing it, and so I thought. . ." His gaze dropped to the floor as he tried to take control of the swirling emotions.

"It's not you," Dean stated moving to sit on the bed opposite his brother. "Do you hear me Sam? It's not you doing this."

Sam met his gaze. "Yeah? That's what I thought I was hoping. . ."

Shit, Sam had hoped he was possessed by a demon? Because that was better than knowing that he had hurt you? Than thinking that he. . .? "Stop it Sam, just stop." Dean interrupted. "We'll. . ." and that was as far as he got because the vice that had been slowly tightening around his wrist was twisted that one notch too far, breaching even Dean's high threshold for pain. The world whited out in agony and all he could do was curl around his wrist, a strangled curse escaping from his tightly clenched jaw.

Sam was across the gap between them in an instant, his own guilt forgotten for the moment. If Dean was reacting like this then it must be bad. He tried to get a look but Dean was being too protective. "Dean come on man – let me look." There was no response. "Dean!"

Sam grabbed Dean's good arm and tried to pull it away so he could get to the injury but Dean resisted. Sam dropped his eye level to below his brother's. "Dean, come on I need to see."

Sam's words finally penetrated through the haze and Dean forced himself to allow Sam the necessary movement, breathing hard as he tried to regain control.

Sam saw the problem instantly. Dean's fingers were swollen and tinged with blue. The dressing from the clinic was digging into flesh on an injury that was trying to swell again. He pulled the end of the dressing free, unwinding it as quickly as possible.

To Dean it was like the release of the vice, the pain reducing almost instantly, his arm and wrist floating up as though they were somehow lighter than before. Tensed muscles relaxed and the endorphins that had been released but hadn't touched the pain before now poured through his system seemingly taking all pain away. His breathing slowed too into a long sigh.

Sam waited long enough for some of the lines of pain to clear from his brother's face. "I'll get some ice," he stated, pushing himself up and grabbing the ice bucket from the dresser.

By the time Dean's thoughts cleared enough for him to take in his surroundings Sam was gone and it only took another moment for the panic to hit him again. He ran across the room yanking open the door to a startled Sam on the other side.

There was an awkward moment as the two brothers stared at each other. Dean taking in the bucket of ice in Sam's hand, a retrospective memory of Sam telling him where he was going now registering where it hadn't registered before. Sam for his part read the fleeting panic in his brother's eyes before Dean closed it down. Damn it! Dean was scared to let him out of his sight and seemingly with good reason. Just what the hell was going on? Sam didn't make any attempt to cover the fear in his own eyes.

"Don't do that," Dean stated breaking the tension, then without another word he turned and walked back to the bed, dropping down onto it wearily.

"Sorry," Sam offered weakly, closing the door behind him and heading to the bathroom for some towels to wrap the ice in. He expertly prepared the wrap, which he took back to his brother, who had settled himself, leaning against the headboard. Sam took the opportunity to examine the wrist before he wrapped it. It was a swollen mess. "Do you think it's broken?" he asked, because it was easier than any of the other things they needed to talk about "We could head back to the clinic get it X-rayed again."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, still just sprained," he stated confidently. Although with the move his brother had used on him it should have been snapped clean through. "Bandages protected it."

Sam gave a slight nod. "When we get the swelling down I'll wrap it again."

Dean could hear the guilt lacing through his brother's words, could see it in his slightly slumped body language, in his avoidance of eye contact, but he couldn't just tell him this wasn't his fault again because no matter how many times he said it Sam wasn't hearing it. "OK so you want to go through what we got so far."

Sam nodded, but still he didn't make eye contact. Damn.

"Right, so both our victims lost their girlfriends to a tragic accident about six months before they died. Matt was beaten to death, Simon multiple stab wounds and. . ."

Sam stared at the comforter "How did we get this case?" He asked suddenly. "I mean apart from the girlfriends dying, both victims were killed in completely different ways with no real indication of any link or anything supernatural at work. Right?" Sam looked up at his brother now.

"Well we.. . ." Dean began but he got no further his brow knitting into a frown of concentration as he tried to remember, but nothing was coming.

"So do you remember why we came here? How we connected the two cases? Why we thought there was something here for us?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth again. He still had nothing.

Sam knew he was onto something. He locked gazes with his brother. "Dean, I don't think it's a coincidence that I fit the victim profile."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9:**

Dean stared forwards seeing nothing his mind still trying to deny. . . Damn! all this time he'd been blaming himself for not seeing the parallels for dragging Sam here and setting him up as a victim when it had been. . .Damn! When he caught this thing it was so going to die.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice dragged Dean back from his introspection. He looked up meeting and holding his brother's gaze. "You think we were lured here?" he asked unnecessarily, the implication had been clear.

Sam didn't answer, he didn't need to, there was enough communication going on without words. He stood heading for his laptop and Dean followed both their minds too busy now working through the implications of the theory to house any of the recrimination and guilt that had hung heavily in the air only moments before. It would return at some point but for now they both dropped back into a comfortable 'working on a hunt' mode.

"So the only thing I know could influence us both, make us forget. . ." Sam began as he opened the laptop lid and hit the power button

"Is some kind of spell," Dean finished for him.

"Some kind of spell," Sam confirmed. He looked up again at his brother. "You know anything else it could be?"

Dean shook his head. "Not that fit's everything."

"So what are we talking Witch? Warlock? Hoodoo?"

"The way the EMF meter was reading I'm thinking something very black here."

Dean moved to his duffel to dig out his father's journal.

"Yeah 'cos there are so many good witches about." Sam supplied sarcastically.

Dean moved back across the room dropping into the chair opposite his brother as he unclipped the leather strip holding the journal closed and began leafing through the pages. One handed it should have been awkward but Dean had had way too much practise over the years. He rested his injured wrist on the table, the ice wrapping dripped a small puddle around it which Dean seemed to ignore but no water went anywhere near the journal's pages.

Sam tapped at his keyboard, typing in search parameters and pulling up the hunter's version of Google.

"You surprise me Sammy," Dean offered "You don't believe there are any white witches out there casting their spells in the interests of health, healing and good crops?"

Sam shook his head, "When have we ever come across a supernatural influence that wasn't doing harm?"

"That could be because they're the only kind we look for."

Sam gave a shrug turning his attention back to the screen. Dean was studying him now, his father's journal forgotten for the moment. "Seriously Sam. You're normally the poster boy for 'maybe it's not all bad Dean'" He mimicked his brother's speech pattern, "And 'not everything has to be evil, Dean'"

Sam stopped typing and looked up, unable to hide the telling glance at Dean's wrapped wrist, pain and fear flickering in clear dark eyes before he managed to shut it down. "Well this is evil. I can. . ." The pause hung between them as Sam's thoughts spiralled. What? How was he going to finish that sentence. . .sense it? . . .feel it? . . .know it because it's got me trying to kill my own brother, or maybe just knock him out?. . .break a few freakin' bones. . . hurt him . . . when I don't know who. . . "This one's evil," he stated flatly pulling himself back from the seething anger and guilt.

Dean just nodded, regretting pushing it when he knew how close to the edge Sam was.

An hour later Dean pushed himself to his feet; "I got nothin'," he stated dejectedly not that that was even close to true. They had a hundred possibilities; they were just no closer to narrowing them down. He stretched and went to pour himself another coffee, not missing Sam's disapproving look. It was a long time since he'd felt this tired. The couple of hours when he'd lost consciousness no compensation for his continuing lack of sleep. He pulled a bottle of pain pills out of his duffle and stared at it for a moment before reluctantly walking across and handing it to Sam.

Sam gave it a stare too before looking up at Dean's face, Dean challenging him to comment. If Dean'd thought there was any way he could get the top off on his own he would have done but it was one of those childproof caps and Dean knew from bitter experience that one hand and teeth weren't really up to the task, and it seemed churlish to solve the problem the same way he'd solved it last time, which involved an axe and a fun time hunting across the floor for the pills, when Sam was sitting right there and would be more than willing. . .

"You should take a break," Sam stated, "Get some rest. I can carry on. . . "

"Just open the damn bottle Sam," Dean said allowing churlish now. Maybe the axe wasn't such a bad idea, this damn headache, the throbbing wrist, it was taking away his focus and he needed to focus because Sam was in danger and he. . "Thanks," he stated as the pills were dropped onto his hand. He dry swallowed them then went to retrieve his coffee.

"I was just saying if you need a break. . ." Sam offered tentatively, worried by how obviously tired and hurting Dean was. If it was bad enough for him to let it show this much. . .

"I'm fine Sam, I just don't think this is getting us anywhere without more to go on."

"Well if you've got a better idea. . ." Sam began.

"We go back to what we were going to do this morning." Dean stated.

"And that would be?" Sam asked, trying hard not to react to the gut-churning that happened with each reminder of the holes in his memory.

Damn, Dean just couldn't seem to help rubbing Sam's face in what was happening. "We were going to interview Pete. He was a friend of Matt's, works at an autoshop corner of the next block." Dean leaned forward. "Matt was the first victim so if we are dealing with a witch. . ."

"They'd be more likely to know the first victim personally, because that was what started the killing, and once they'd started killing they got a taste for it hence the second victim. That would certainly fit the profile"

"Of what?"

"Of a serial killer who was also a witch."

"I knew I shouldn't have let you watch Criminal Minds and Charmed on the same night."

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Pete looked suspiciously at the ID and then back up at Sam briefly before his eyes drifted to Dean and his obvious injuries. The Winchester's had done their best to clean up but the bruising on Dean's face was difficult to hide as was the sling which Sam had insisted on before he'd let Dean leave the Motel room. Little brother guilt was something that even Dean couldn't ignore; besides he knew he'd be no use to anyone if he didn't let this wrist heal a little, not to mention that it was far easier to focus when the pain eased, and so he'd reluctantly allowed his brother that concession.

"You two are cops?" Pete asked the scepticism was clear.

"Yeah," Sam, replied smoothly, "My partner here got injured taking down some drug runners, so our captain's got us out running interviews on cold cases see if we can come up with anything new." He gave another flash of a smile. "Sometimes people remember new details, things that we can follow up and it sure beats riding a desk until his," he gestured back to Dean, "injuries heal up."

Dean allowed a glance of pride at his brother's smooth lie, explaining everything from the unexpected visit after six months to his own appearance. He couldn't have done it better himself, impressive in the circumstances.

Pete looked convinced and handed back the ID. "Well, I'll do my best to help of course but I'm not sure that I'll be any more help than I was at the time."

"Just answering our questions will be enough thanks," Sam said following as Pete led them to the back of the shop. It was a small place two cars were up on ramps and there was space for a third. Over on the far side there was a guy, face completely obscured by a mask welding something to the bottom of an Oldsmobile. The other guy in coveralls who had been there when they had arrived had disappeared up some stairs at the back of the shop to what Dean had assumed was an office of some kind and he had yet to reappear.

Pete turned to face them perching on the edge of a pile of tyres as he wiped his hand on the obligatory oily rag.

"So, we're interested in what Matt was doing in the days leading up to his death." Dean stated, "Did you see him, maybe talk to him in that time?"

Pete looked thoughtful. "You think that's relevant? You think he might have known his killer?"

Dean gave a noncommittal shrug. "We're not sure what's relevant that's why we're here, just shaking branches to see what falls."

"OK, well the week before he died I saw him twice, once on the Monday, we went out for a beer, I was trying to get him back out into the world you know after. . . " He swallowed, "Emma's death hit him hard but it had been six months. It had been long enough. . too long really, but he was starting to agree to go out you know?" He looked up questioningly, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "He was starting to come out of it, even had a few laughs that night, and then on Thursday. . ." Pete's voice trailed off and he seemed to concentrate on the cloth that he had been absently rubbing his hands with.

"The day before he died," Sam prompted softly.

Pete looked up met his gaze then dropped the cloth onto the top of the tool chest beside him. "It was like he'd changed completely in those few days. He didn't seem to be grieving any more, if anything he seemed. . . happy, but not," he took a long pause "Am I making any sense at all?"

'Yes because by Thursday Matt was under the spell of some sort of witch and seeing his dead girlfriend,' both Winchester's thought it, but it was Sam who came out with the reassurance in a form that wouldn't instantly convince the guy that they were both crazy. "Yes, perfect sense," Sam stated, because he understood completely what had happened. "You think he only seemed happy, there was something wrong. He was distant maybe?"

Pete nodded his agreement.

"Almost like he was under some sort of spell?" Dean asked innocently.

Pete glanced down looking past the rag that was no longer being used to wipe hands so much as to give an outlet to the kinetic manifestation that accompanied the emotions being dragged back to the surface. Lost in memories for a moment he failed to see the 'what the hell are you doing glare' that Sam gave Dean because that question was too close to the truth, was too close to getting them both declared crazy and no more questions answered. Dean replied with a 'what' shrug of his shoulders and a look that would have convinced anyone apart possibly from teachers and police officers that Dean was completely guileless, and of course Sam, because Sam knew his brother too well.

The exchange of communication by glare would have continued but Pete was speaking again. "Yeah, exactly like that." Pete looked up forcing both of them to school their expressions back to the serious. "Like he was just saying and doing what I expected him to do. . how I expected him to be when Emma. . .before. . ."

"Did he mention seeing Emma again?" Dean asked earning him the full 'What the HELL are you doing!' glare from Sam, behind Pete's back as a startled Pete turned to look at Dean.

"What do. . ."

"What he means is," Sam tried to interject and pull Dean back from this line of questioning that was definitely going to get them both thrown out of there with nothing more to go on and God Sam needed something more to go on. "Was he seeing anyone. . ."

As Pete's head turned Sam got the guileless 'what?' expression from Dean and then he was interrupting again. "What I meant to say is, we have a witness who claims that Matt thought he saw Emma again. In the days before he died, said he claimed to be spending time with her."

"Spending time with. . . " Pete had gone a little paler and was staring at Dean now. "He thought he was seeing his dead girlfriend," A pause for loss of focus, memories, eyes moving restlessly around in sockets but not seeing. "That would explain.. . . .No! that's crazy," and now Pete's focus was fully back. "Why would he think he was seeing his dead girlfriend he wasn't crazy. . .He didn't. . . . He was murdered, the police, the coroner they were quite clear on that. It wasn't. . ."

"It's OK," Sam soothed, because the emotions were clearly tearing ragged holes in the control of the man in front of him, Matt and Pete had been close. "We know it was murder no one is trying to suggest anything else."

"Then why. . .?"

"It's just," Dean answered, exchanging 'what?' and 'I told you so' glares with his brother. "We have a witness who says. . ."

"Who?" Pete demanded bluntly. "Who told you that. . .Who would. . . ?" but he didn't wait for an answer his eyes flashing with realisation, then anger. "It was her wasn't it, Tiffany?" His eyes now betrayed hate. "It was Tiffany Mahers."

Dean nodded, slightly non-plussed by the reaction.

"That witch, that complete and utter. . .she. . ." whatever other insults he was throwing were lost in the grinding of teeth and the agitated pacing that turned his back on the brothers. This time the 'what the hell' exchange of looks came from both of them before their attention was focussed back on Pete.

Pete turned looking at each of them in turn, visibly reigning in the anger. "She. . .she's a real piece of work, can't leave him alone even after he's dead. I always told him. . ."

"You didn't like her?" Sam asked, it was stating the obvious but they needed to keep him talking, find out the basis for emotions this strong.

Pete shook his head. "She's a selfish, manipulating. . .the only thing that's important to Tiffany Mahers is getting what she wants. She set her sights on Matt and it killed her when she couldn't get him. When he asked Emma to marry him I think she actually did turn a shade of green, not that she ever let Matt see it. To him she was the sweetest, most supportive, two-faced lying bitch you could ever hope to have as a friend. She did everything she could to break them up without ever letting Matt see what she was doing, to the extent that if any of his real friends tried to tell him it looked like we were the crazy ones. Then when Emma died she didn't even wait for the funeral before she started making her play. Can you believe. . . ." He looked at Dean directly. "No, you've met her right? And if she was playing you she came across as really sweet and nice and upset about Matt right?" He waited the moment it took for Dean to nod an acknowledgement, finally throwing the rag to the floor in frustration. "Of course she did, but she wasn't upset at all. At the funeral she called me over to whisper something to me, so that the others wouldn't hear. You know what she whispered? 'He got what he deserved; if he'd loved me he'd still be alive,' and then she laughed, more like giggled as though she'd told me something funny." He took in the gazes of both brothers. "So anything she told you. . .well I wouldn't put too much faith in it. In fact if she didn't have an alibi with like twenty witnesses who saw her on the other side of town I could almost believe that she. . ." He shook his head, "Not that I believe that anybody could. . .I mean what was done to Matt." And then he was lost in the emotions of memories that would haunt him for a while yet.

Sam turned the page on the pad he had been taking notes on. He scribbled a name and cell number before ripping it out. "We didn't mean to upset you again," he stated gently, understanding the effect of the memories on the young man in front of him. "If you do think of anything else that may be relevant then please give us a call." He held out the torn sheet.

Pete took it, nodding. "I will. I hope. . .I hope you get somewhere this time."

"We'll let you know if we do," Dean stated.

They were outside and across the street before either of them spoke. "It can't be that easy," Dean said.

Sam turned to look at him. "He did just call her a witch."

"Yeah, I know but he didn't mean. . . not literally. I mean he couldn't. He doesn't know. . .It was me leading him into it, talking about spells. I. . ."

"Doesn't mean he isn't right," Sam said reasonably.

Dean studied him for a moment. "So we should check her out?"

Sam nodded. "Unless you have something better?"

Well a couple of Tylenol, an ice pack for his wrist, a long sleep in the hope that the pounding in his head would go away would be a good start. "No, let's go, I still have her address."

Sam insisted on driving. It was a short argument; even Dean had to admit that a concussion and swollen wrist versus no injury was really no contest. He tossed Sam the keys and headed for the passenger door.

"Dean!"

The sharp shout had him heading back round to Sam's side, the ever present fear that he'd been holding in check rushing to the surface with the pounding adrenaline. "Sam what? What's wrong?" he shouted as he ran back around. His hand was on Sam's arm, staring at the slightly lost expression on his brother's face, the fear doubling as he recognised the look, his brother staring through him. "Sam!"

Sam saw something; it scared him. He called his brother, and then there was no reason for fear because she was there, Jess was there, as beautiful as ever. He could just go to her. She wanted him, needed him. 'Get in the car sweetheart.' The whisper was in his ear, the soft caress on his neck. ' I'm taking you somewhere special, don't be long,' and then she was gone.

"Sam?"

Sam could hear the panic in his brother's voice. He looked at him, met his gaze, shaking his head, not quite remembering why Dean was there in his face. "Dean?"

The relief registered in Dean's entire body language as he visibly relaxed "Sam, you back with me again?"

"Yeah," he shook his head, "Yeah, I'm fine, what happened?"

"You phased on me there for a moment." Dean studied him. "You OK now?"

"Yeah, let's get moving."

Dean looked at him sceptically. "You sure you're up to driving."

"As opposed to how fit you are?" Sam asked raising one eyebrow.

Dean didn't accept it quite so easily this time. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure." He turned and opened the Impala's door, climbing into the driver's seat. Dean watched until he was seated and the Impala's engine started up with its characteristic low rumble, his gaze drifting across to where Sam had been looking before returning worriedly to his brother. He'd been convinced for a moment that he'd lost Sam again. He shook his head, the only option was to keep working this like a regular hunt even if it was as far from a regular hunt as it was possible to be.

He moved quickly round the front of the car but it wasn't quick enough. He registered the change in tone of the engine just before the car lurched forward. Instinct allowed him to throw himself forward but he wasn't quick enough, didn't have the time. The front wing clipped him and threw him across the ground as Sam peeled out of the lot leaving his brother rolling across the tarmac.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: Am I allowed to say I love this chapter even though I wrote it? Because pissed off protective Dean- my favourite, oh no, hang on- pissed off, protective, _injured_ Dean, even better! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it- J

**Chapter 10 Finding Evil**

Dean felt the pain explode down his right side as the Impala hit, then his left as he impacted with the hard tarmac of the lot, and then he was rolling, instinct taking over as he followed his momentum. The world was spinning; the air forced from his lungs, his injured wrist knotted in the sling as he tried to release it, tried to brace himself against the hard ground. Violence and motion ruled his world for less than a second but it felt like so much longer as he fought against it. No, he couldn't do this. Sammy wouldn't. . .

He let out a slight cough before drawing in deep heavy breaths to give oxygen to an adrenaline heightened system, curling around his throbbing wrist, his hip beating a counterpoint of pain. His eyes squeezed closed as though that would protect him, somehow shield him. He just needed a minute to. . .

No! Dammit! He didn't have time for this. The pain and the pity could wait for later because even if he was the one lying face down in the tarmac it was Sam who was in trouble. He rolled himself over and pushed up. His eyes scanning towards the exit, just in time to see the tail lights of the Impala one last time as Sam braked for the corner at the bottom of the block.

Left he went left, Dean repeated to himself as he turned and headed for their room. He ignored his injuries as best he could but he was still limping heavily as he hustled forwards. He cursed as his hands shook when he tried to get the key in the lock, forcing himself to take a deep breath so he could steady his hand enough for the simple task. Frustration tried to take hold, but, like all of the other negative emotions trying to drag his mind down so that he couldn't function, he pushed it back into the fuzzy area of his mind where it could fester, come back to haunt him later when he had time for it, when it could control his nightmares or drown itself in too many beers with whisky chasers. When he could spectacularly let it take over for a little while in his own broken way of dealing, but for now it was something he wouldn't allow, couldn't afford, his entire mind focussed on the one thing he had to do, save Sammy.

The key finally slid into the lock and he pushed quickly into the room ripping the sling off as he grabbed his gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Next he grabbed the weapons bag, dumping the contents unceremoniously onto the bed. He picked out the few things he thought he could use and hefted it over his shoulder.

Car, he needed a car. He scanned the area quickly, looking for something that wouldn't be reported as missing for a few hours. He settled on the employee section of the lot behind the motel; an old grey Ford Crown Victoria with an open window and 'steal me' practically tattooed on the side took him out onto the road.

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Dean didn't have time for subtle, even if he'd felt like it, so his entrance to Tiffany's apartment involved a short appraisal and then a well aimed kick that took out the lock and splintered the frame. He was in before the door had stopped swinging, his gun held out in front of him as he swept the room.

The startled cry drew his aim as Tiffany stood and turned to look at him, eyes wide with shock. "What the Hell.? ."

"Where is he?" Dean interrupted; the cold rage an almost visible emotion swirling round him. His eyes continued to sweep around the room but his gun never wavered from where it was pointed at her head. He stepped closer to her, menacing, angry. "I want to know where he is?"

"Where who is?" Tiffany asked her expression registering confusion and fear. "I. . . I. . don't know what you're. . ."

Dean transferred the gun to his injured hand allowing it to drop down to his side as he grabbed the front of Tiffany's shirt and pushed her back against the wall. "I won't ask you again, where is my brother?"

Tears welled in Tiffany's eyes and she fought to hold them back, to control the fear. This was not the same man who had spoken to her about Matt only the day before He had the same face, but that man had been handsome and charming and fun, now there was only cold, violence and fury.

She knew that she needed to convince him that she had no idea what he was talking about. Her eyes scanned his face frantically. If she couldn't do that then she was sure he was going to hurt her. "I didn't know you even had a brother," she stated quickly, almost tripping over her words in her effort to get them out. "Please I only met you that one time, the other day, Matt never talked about you; I don't know. . .I didn't know. . .please you have to believe me I. . ."

Dean had been holding her, watching her, his eyes boring right through hers and into what lay behind. He wanted to believe that she was responsible because it was the only lead he had and if it wasn't her then he couldn't find Sam and he needed to find Sam before. . but he knew it wasn't her, knew that she wasn't lying to him, every instinct was screaming at him to listen to them because otherwise he might do something that he would regret. He stepped back, his certainty melting a little. It wasn't her. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. It wasn't her. He pressed his hand against his forehead, pushing back against the sudden pressure there. Then he was moving, through the apartment, checking every closet every cupboard every room, leaving all of the doors open behind him.

There was nothing, no sign of anything even remotely supernatural, no spell ingredients, no herbs, nothing. Dean scanned around the apartment once more, looking back at Tiffany who huddled against the wall where he had left her, too scared to move.

She should have run away whilst he was searching the apartment, should have bolted for the door, grabbed the phone called 911, screamed, something, anything, but the fear had held her in place and she could not move.

Fear that Dean had caused. "I'm sorry, I thought. ." he started to move towards her but stopped when she flinched, pushing herself further back into the wall to try to get away from him.

"Did you kill Matt," she asked her voice frail and thready.

"What?" the question had shock value, even though Dean knew he should've expected that thought, after the way he'd behaved. "No I. . .whoever killed Matt has gone after my brother. He's missing and I thought. . ." It was Dean's turn to allow a little of the fear to show, to let her in because he was going to need her help, because he didn't have the time. . .

"Your brother,"

"Sam," Dean supplied.

"Sam," she acknowledged, "is missing and you thought I . . ." and then realisation dawned. "My God you think I killed Matt." She looked up and met his gaze. "You think I'm going to kill your brother, but why. . .who would make you think that. . Why would I ever want to kill Matt?"

Dean took a couple of steps back, sinking onto the couch as his legs almost gave out from under him. On the drive, all the way over he had been convinced that it was her that he only needed to get to this place to find Sam, to get his brother back before he got hurt, but he was wrong. Damn, how could he be wrong? What was he going to do? How was he going to save. . .?

"Dean?"

He looked up Tiffany had moved away from the wall to sit on the arm of the chair but she was still keeping a wary distance from him. She looked like she was ready to bolt at any moment. God he had done this to her. "I'm Sorry," he said again, and he was, but he didn't have the time to make this up to her, he had to get back out, had to find Sam, had to. . .

He pushed up to his feet, or at least he tried to. His injured hip would have taken him slightly off balance and he maybe could have compensated, if his vision had given him a less wavy view of the room, if his thoughts hadn't been so focussed, if the change in elevation hadn't dropped his already screwed blood pressure. He fell back down and the world faded out.

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When Dean came round he had a wet cloth draped over his forehead and his injured wrist had been moved carefully to lie across his chest. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and found himself staring into Tiffany's eyes.

"Welcome back," she said with an unsure smile.

Dean tried to push himself up from his slumped position, his mind going from sluggish to racing faster than any drag car as thoughts and fears and imperatives jostled for attention in his consciousness. He had to get up, had to get out of here, Sam was in trouble, could be hurt could be. . he didn't have time for weakness, for politeness, for pain. He needed. . .the groan that escaped accompanied the sharp pains from his body and the stab of white from behind one eye, as he moved.

"Hey take it easy or you'll pass out again," Tiffany said the concern showing as she caught the cloth that fell from his face.

A gentle hand touched Dean's shoulder helping to support him as he allowed the room to tilt then right itself.

He turned his eyes to look at her. "I'm sorry but I need to get moving. Sam. . ."

"Is in danger I know, but you're not going to be much use to him if you're unconscious." She looked him up and down. "Somebody sure did a number on you since we first met." She turned to grab some pills from the table behind her. "Here take these."

Dean eyed them suspiciously. "I can't. . ."

"They won't make you drowsy, I promise, it's just something the doctor gave me when I hurt my shoulder."

Dean stared at them for another moment.

"They'll take the edge off the pain," she stated.

Dean weighed the arguments then grabbed the pills and dry swallowed them. Less pain would make it easier to function. "Thanks," he stated, his eyes not quite meeting hers, knowing that he didn't deserve this kindness from someone he had threatened and terrorised, not to mention the damage he had done.

"I need to get moving," he said, pushing to his feet much more cautiously this time.

"Wait," Tiffany said as he took a step. "I need to know, what made you think I had anything to do with Matt's death?"

"His friend Pete said you were jealous, that he rejected you and you were jealous of Emma before she died. That you tried to break them up."

Tiffany shook her head, looking down at the floor as she processed the accusation. "No, I. . .Matt and I were only ever friends. It was only after Emma died that I started seeing him. . . that I started thinking about him in that way." She looked up to meet Dean's gaze, needing to convince him of her sincerity. "I was happy for him, when he found Emma they were the perfect couple, they. . .If anyone was jealous it was Pete. He wanted Emma; you could see it in the way he looked at her, but she only ever had eyes for Matt. . . ."

Dean was already heading for the door. There was only one reason Pete could have for lying to them, for the misdirection, for the Godamn Oscar performance that he had given them in the shop. He was going to. . .

"Wait," Tiffany again running up behind him. "You're going to need this."

She handed Dean his gun and he cursed himself for forgetting something so important. He took it gratefully and stuffed it back into his waistband, surprised when Tiffany moved in front of him.

"Come on," she stated, "I'll drive it'll give you chance to get a little rest."

Dean took a step after her and grabbed her arm. "No, this is too dangerous. You. . ."

"Look, you want to save your brother and I want to get whoever was responsible for killing Matt. I know this town better than you; I know where Pete lives, where he's likely to hang out. I can help."

Dean hesitated but only for a moment, mainly because he didn't have the time or the strength to argue. He gestured for her to go in front of him.

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As they drove Dean allowed the anger and the rage to build once again, allowed the hatred for anyone who would hurt his brother to push up his blood pressure and trigger an adrenaline release. He knew that it was the only thing allowing him to mask the pain and the tiredness, knew it was what he needed to keep going, to give him the strength to save Sam and he was well practiced in using it, in calling on reserves that most people never used in order to just keep going, to stay alive, to keep his family alive. Emotion could be a powerful force if you could control it, but it came at a cost, and his body and mind would pay for it later. He knew that but it had never stopped him, and it sure as Hell wasn't going to stop him now.

He was out of the car almost before it had stopped, scanning the front of the shop which now had the corrugated metal doors down, closing off the car entrance. It was early afternoon and there was no way they should be closed unless they were taking a half day and that was more of a coincidence than Dean would allow. He moved around the front of the car, pulling out his weapon, making sure to shield it with his body from the street. "Stay here, and if I'm not out in twenty minutes call the police." Dean made it enough of an order that Tiffany didn't have room to argue, still he half expected her to follow him as he headed cautiously for the smaller door cut into the larger one. He glanced back to her as he reached it, flattening himself against the metal. She had stayed where he told her, watching him and he gave her a nod before he cautiously turned the handle on the door, it wasn't locked. He took one deep breath and rushed through, gun out, senses on full alert.

The interior was dark, shadowed, lit by only one of the four strip lights on the ceiling, and it took a moment for Dean's eyes to adjust from the sunshine outside. It was the noise that made him turn, just in time to move out of the way of the flame from the arc welder, he felt the heat as it cut through the air behind him, straight through the space he had just occupied. He scrabbled backwards keeping his gun trained on the guy in the mask who had just attacked him. "Drop it or I shoot," Dean ordered, allowing himself a quick scan around for other threats as he took another step back away from his attacker.

If the man heard him he made no acknowledgement, he just kept coming, flame out, ready to strike. Dean didn't quite believe it. It was like someone with a sword going for someone with a gun, he had all the advantages unless they got into close combat and Dean wasn't about to let that happen. It wasn't logical unless his assailant thought that he wasn't ready to shoot, big mistake. Still, Dean gave him one more warning. "I said drop it or I'll shoot." The guy kept advancing so Dean lowered his aim and fired. One shot mid thigh, the guy should have dropped like a stone.

There was no reaction; Dean took another step back, staring at the guy's leg which should be pouring with blood by now. He tried again; still aiming for the leg, this time he hit just above the knee-cap, a dirty shot that would rip out tendons and normally leave a guy limping for life. It wasn't a shot he would normally use, but he knew what the dirty shots were. No way anyone could keep walking with a bullet through there. His assailant paused for a moment this time, then took another step.

Dean raised his gun, no need to be cautious now, this wasn't a person, at least not one who was alive, and therefore whatever the hell it was he could kill it. He emptied his clip into the thing's chest but, apart from tearing ragged holes in its coveralls, the bullets had no effect. Crap!

Dean dropped his gun and watched for an opening, hand to hand against arc-welder. He just had to hope that whatever this was it was slow and stupid. He let it come a little closer before making his move. He stepped in and under its arm raising his shoulder as he grabbed the thing's wrist and took control of the weapon. Two quick twists and the flame was slicing across its chest, setting its clothes on fire as it went. Dean completed the turn and dropped the thing to the ground; pulling the welder free from its hand and kicking the mask off, sallow rotting flesh looked back at him. Zombie- double crap! He dropped to cut its head off with the flame. It writhed a little, trying to fight back but Dean and the flames had finally done some damage. It took some manoeuvring to sever all of the flesh but Dean finally dropped back panting, trying to ignore the macabre sight of the head rolling free, as he shut the welder down.

He scanned for his gun, crawling over to it before pushing up and heading for the office at the back of the shop. He moved slowly, cautiously just in case there were any other surprises waiting for him. He had to stop once to reload his weapon, awkward with only one fully functioning hand, noting that his wrist had taken a little more damage in the fight; a burn sliced across the back of his hand and wrist, funny that he hadn't even felt it, didn't really feel it now.

He took the first three steps and then scanned the room from his elevated position, nothing else moved. Satisfied that he wasn't going to be attacked from behind he turned his attention to the door above him. It was a tricky approach, anyone in the room had a potential advantage, but at least it opened inwards, making being knocked back down the stairs just a little less likely. Still the best approach was fast and violent. If there was anyone in that room then they had warning and time to prepare for his attack. So there was no advantage in slow and stealthy. Dean covered the last few steps as fast as his hip would allow. Shoving hard into the room, he dislodged a haphazard pile of furniture which didn't stop the door opening until it was wedged from an angle. He pointed his gun at Pete who was literally starting to cower in one of the corners, his shoulders hunching down as he continued to read from an old leather bound book.

Dean was across the room in three strides, noting the terror on Pete's face as he moved. Pete tried to read more quickly but it was no use. Dean was on him, the book knocked violently from his grasp, the gun digging into his throat as Pete was pushed back further into the wall.

"Where is he?" Dean shoved the gun up digging the barrel into the soft flesh under Pete's chin. "Where's my brother?"

"I. . .I . . ." Pete stuttered, unable to get words out through the jumble of fear. "I don't know. She. . .she has him."

"She who? What's your part in this?" Dean kept up the pressure now leaning his whole weight through his forearm on Pete's chest making it harder for him to breath.

"I don't. . "

Dean increased the pressure choking off Pete's words, "And don't tell me you don't know." Dean twisted the gun grinding it up into Pete's jawbone. "You saw what I did to your Zombie friend?"

Pete managed a slight nod.

"Well if you don't start telling me what I need to hear, then I'm going to drag you down there and start removing pieces with that torch." Dean's threat was slow and deliberate. "So why don't you start talking." He shifted his weight back a little so that Pete could get enough air to speak.

"Please, I don't know where she took him, honestly I don't. . .I can't . . ."

Dean stepped back letting Pete slump against the wall. He was talking now and he would keep talking. "Who is she? What is she?" He moved to pick up the book he'd knocked to the floor. It was a text on necromancy. Shit, they spent their entire lives trying to get rid of spirits and this idiot was summoning them.

"Her name is Rebecca," Pete started, "and she's a. . ." but he couldn't finish the sentence. No way in Hell this nut job with a gun was going to believe that he'd summoned a ghost. Most people didn't even believe they . . .

"She's a spirit that you summoned right?" Dean asked. Pete could only nod, his mouth dropping open slightly. "What else?" Dean demanded.

"She was. . .she is a witch, a powerful one. She. . ." He looked into Dean's eyes, the intensity was terrifying. "I swear I didn't know she would do this when I summoned her. I just wanted Matt to pay, for killing Emma, it was his fault. He knew the brakes on that car were faulty. I told him not to drive it, and he let her. . . So I wanted him to pay. I didn't think. . . . I didn't know. . ."

"So! What? You summoned some bad-ass spirit of a long dead witch and you thought everything would end with puppies and roses?" Dean spat the words turning to throw the book onto the desk beside him, the impact making Pete flinch.

Pete shook his head. "I don't know. I. . ."

"You don't know a lot do you." Dean got in Pete's face again. "So she came back and killed your friend Matt and then she wouldn't go away again."

"I thought I could control her," Pete stated. "I thought I'd be able to send her back once she was done but she's too powerful and the summoning spell. . . it links her to me. I don't know how to break it. She would kill me if. . ."

"If you don't find her new victims?"

Pete nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor. "She needs victims consumed by fire to manifest."

Dammit! Dean slammed his gun into the wall next to Pete's head in an effort to stop himself from removing it with his bare hands. The snivelling coward in front of him had killed two people set Sam up to be the third victim, the urge to tear him apart was almost overwhelming. "So you," Dean spoke quietly, coldly, his mouth next to Pete's ear, "found people who's girlfriend's had burnt to death and set them up to die."

The nod this time was a little more animated, Pete's eyes were screwed closed, tears already flowing. "Yes," he whispered, "God help me yes."

"Oh I don't think God is going to be helping you anytime soon." Dean stated. He stepped back opening the book on the desk. "Show me the summoning spell and tell me everything you know about this witch."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Sam rolled onto his back and let out a contented sigh, pushing sweat soaked hair back from his face. Jess pressed into his side planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

"That," she practically purred, "was amazing." She ran a finger down his chest. "It's such a shame I'm going to have to kill you now." She lifted herself up on her elbow so that she could smile down at Sam, he gazed into her eyes. "Do you want to help me decide how to do it?"

Sam smiled back giving his head a slight shake. "You decide," he said leaning up to kiss her, before dropping back down to the pillow. "You can do whatever you want."

"Hmm," she murmured softly, running her hand down his chest and across tightly muscled flesh, imagining the blade of a knife slicing through as she went, the sides parting, the blood, bubbling and spreading. Then she patted his stomach. "OK get dressed, you're far too distracting like this and I want to think about it a little more before we start. Sam nodded and obediently swung himself to a sitting position, picking up and pulling on a t-shirt as Jess found her own clothes. "Now I wonder what's keeping that brother of yours."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Dean kicked open the door to their motel room, he was doing a lot of that today but it wasn't doing that much for anger release. Every part of him felt like a curled knot of anger. They'd been played for fools by a cowardly idiot and stalked by a frickin' two century dead witch, nothing was going to ease that not even sending the bitch to Hell..

He'd cursed himself several times on the short journey over for not putting two and two together and making four earlier. Both of the previous killings had been done in the victim's own homes. Since the room was technically Sam's only home, unless you wanted to count the Impala and there wasn't enough room for the kind of violence this bitch showed in there, it should have been obvious that this would be where she would bring him. All he'd had to do was stay put, of course then he wouldn't have had the information that he needed. Not that that would be worth a damn if he was too late. If anything had happened to Sam while he was. .

"Hello Dean," Jessica's soft voice greeted him from where she was draped down his brother's side, her head resting on his shoulder. "Sam and I have been waiting to kill you."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Choices**

Dean allowed himself a moment to acknowledge how perfect the mask was, at least as good as the shapeshifter who'd once stolen his face. It was Jessica. Fuck! What must that be doing to his brother? What would it do when he had to watch her die all over again? He pushed the thought down; it wasn't like he had a choice. He had to get rid of her, with any luck Sam's amnesia would hold and he wouldn't remember any of it.

Dean brought up the shotgun. "What makes you think I'm going to give you a chance bitch!"

Sam reacted to that "Dean what the Hell do you think you're doing." He grabbed Jessica and pushed her protectively behind him.

Dean took a step forward and to the side, trying to get a shot. "That's not her Sam, that's not Jessica." He knew that his words wouldn't have any effect, the spell she was using could make him do anything she wanted; she'd already proved that, but Dean also knew that he could break it, that he could get through to Sam somehow, and even if he couldn't he had to try.

Jessica was at least a foot behind Sam but the words whispered in his ear. "You have to protect me. You have to stop him." There was the slightest of pauses. "Kill him." It should have made no sense, he should have refused to even contemplate it, let alone do it. This was his big brother, this was Dean and he loved Dean. "Kill him before he hurts me." He loved Dean, but that didn't matter, he had to do this – for her. Had to do anything she asked of him. Had to. . .

Dean moved again, trying to get a clear shot, but Sam moved to block it, and then the only movement Dean could make was of avoidance as Sam launched himself at his brother. Dean ducked and twisted out of his path but Sam knew him well enough to anticipate the move and shifted to compensate, shoulder charging Dean as he used his height and bulk to literally slam Dean into the wall behind him. Dean's arm was flung out to the side, shotgun with it, Fire exploding through the already injured muscles in his side as the air exploded from his lungs. Sam's forearm came up to press against his windpipe and he had no choice but to fight back dirty. His knee came up to impact with Sam's groin at the same time as his arm swung back round. The weight of the shotgun slamming into the side of his brother's face as Sam went down. He wasn't down long but it was enough, just enough for Dean to aim the shotgun at Jessica and pull the trigger and then Sam was back on him again. A hard punch snapped Dean's head back and then his brother's fingers closed around Dean's throat choking off his air supply again only this time he was too groggy to respond.

The rock salt blast from Dean's shotgun sliced through Jessica and she disappeared.

Sam pulled his hands back like he'd been burnt. Not quite able to comprehend that they'd been around his brother's throat. Dean took a choking gasp of air and slid slightly down the wall, his legs not strong enough to support him.

Sam knew that he should be moving forward should be helping but he couldn't move, couldn't put the necessary thoughts together to control muscles, to make sense of. . .

Dean was gasping for air in front of him, struggling to stay upright, to force himself back to his feet, and all Sam could do was stare at him and then down at his own hands, he could still feel his own grip tightening, squeezing trying to. . .

"Sam?" Dean's voice was raspy, his hands moved to grip Sam's arms. "Sammy? You back with me?"

He looked up, meeting Dean's gaze as tears started to form on the edge of his vision "Dean, I just tried. . . I'm sorry I. . ."

"It's OK Sam, everything's going to be OK." Dean reassured.

"No Dean," Sam's voice broke slightly. "We've been through this; it's not even close to OK. I just had my hands round your throat and. . ."

"Sam," Dean interrupted again, softly wiping away the small smear of blood from his brother's forehead with his thumb. He had done that when he'd hit Sam with the shotgun, Damn this was so screwed,. "I'm OK," he stated, turning his hand to rest against his brother's cheek, "and I'll explain everything but we don't have time for this now. You need to salt the doors and windows, protect the room, OK?"

Sam stared for just a moment longer, his eyes meeting Dean's, seeing the mix of trust and concern there despite what he had just done, drawing in a deep breath as he nodded. He could do this.

"Good boy," Dean said, in that way he had when Sam was five and needed the praise of a big brother to reassure him that he was doing good. It was the right thing to say now because, given his mental state, Sam Damn sure needed all of the reassurance he could get. Dean had already moved round him to grab the duffle and hand it to him.

"I'll be back in a minute Sam." Dean stated, Relieved when Sam took the bag from him and began rooting around inside for the salt. He wished he could stay and help Sam more, it was a while since he'd seen his brother look so lost, not since Jess and. . . He drew in his own deep breath, best not to go there. One way or another this would all be over soon. He took one last look back at Sam before heading back out to the car.

Dean rubbed absently at the new bruising on his neck as he crouched down to look at Tiffany. She was scared but she was holding it together.

"Did you find Sam? Is he. . .?"

It struck Dean that Tiffany didn't know him very well, because if Sam had been injured or worse then he would currently be tearing the guy on the backseat to pieces or. . .maybe not, it had occurred to him that if anything ever happened to Sam then he just wouldn't be able to function, that the world would just stop, and then. . .but either way he wouldn't be here, crouching next to her car, doing his best to give her a reassuring smile.

"He's fine. . ." a damn lie but he didn't have any physical injuries and that was what she was asking. He reached in and closed his hand over the gun that was clutched in slightly shaking hands. She gave it up with obvious relief as Dean once again took charge. "Thank you for your help," he stated. "I'll take it from here."

"But. . ." she started to protest.

"No," Dean stated firmly, he'd known that this was coming. "Pete's going to pay for what he did to Matt, to the others, but you can't be involved any further." He paused, waited for her to meet his gaze. "You need to go home."

"But I could. . ." she tried again, but Dean could see that he'd already won the argument. He knew that she didn't really understand, that he was asking a lot of her to trust him, but she'd eventually given in to curiosity, followed him in to Pete's workplace and she'd seen enough to allow him to convince her that she was dealing with things she didn't understand, shouldn't want to even know about let alone understand. He'd needed her to keep Pete under wraps whilst he went to find Sam, but he didn't need her any more and if she got any more involved then there would be no going back for her.

"I'll come and see you when all this is over." Dean said.

She nodded, biting at her bottom lip as she shifted back into the driving seat. Dean scanned the surroundings, thank God for sleepy small towns. They'd parked out of sight of the road and there was no one else around to witness what he was about to do. He pulled open the back door, gesturing with the gun for Pete to move. He was tied up and it was awkward for him but Dean had no sympathy. He gave him a necessary tug to help him to his feet then grabbed the book from the backseat before pushing Pete roughly in the direction of the motel room. He kept his eye out for any potential witnesses on the way. Tiffany to her credit, didn't hesitate, once they were clear she put the car in drive and moved off without even a glance back.

Sam looked up from where he was pouring a thick line of salt across the back window and watched as Dean pushed Pete into the room. Pete stumbled, thrown off balance by the push and unable to right it quickly with his hands tied behind his back, but he kept his feet, barely.

"So Sam, you remember our friend Pete." Dean pushed him roughly over to one of the chairs, pressing down hard on his shoulder to make him sit. "Pete you remember Sam one of the men you're witch bitch is getting ready to tear to pieces?" He got his face in Pete's. "You remember him don't you?"

Sam finished the salt line and straightened up, watching his brother with his captive. "He's responsible?" he asked.

"Oh Yeah, he's responsible," Dean confirmed, moving over to swap the salt container in Sam's hand for a piece of rope. "You wanna secure him?" Sam nodded and Dean headed to the door to put a line of salt behind it. "You see old Pete there blamed his friend Matt for killing Emma, and Pete was in love with Emma, despite the fact that she was his best friend's fiancée, but instead of doing what your average, vengeful insanely jealous murdering bastard would do, and going over to kill Matt himself, he decided to summon a dead witch to do his dirty work for him."

"It's not like that," Pete finally found the voice to protest. He turned his head, trying to appeal to Sam who was tying his hands to the chair legs "I didn't. . .

"It's exactly like that," Dean stated. "He found a really neat spell that would work perfectly because he already had a victim consumed by fire and linked to the man he wanted to kill."

Sam pulled the ropes just a little harder than he needed to causing Pete to wince. "He summoned a murderous spirit?"

"Oh not just any murderous spirit Sam, as I said this one is the ghost of a witch and when he brought her back, she brought her whole arsenal of magic back with her."

"So she killed Matt, and Simon . . ."

"And a guy named David Kenton, we didn't pick up on him but old Pete here keeps good records, in a nice neat little filing cabinet. Records on Matt and Simon and David and you and the next six victims he had lined up, so he could save his own sorry ass." Dean sank onto a chair the wrong way resting the gun that still pointed at Pete on the high back and placing his injured wrist at a slightly more comfortable angle across his chest. There was more Sam needed to know because he needed Sam's help if they were going to get rid of Rebecca's spirit. "You see, Pete here's none too bright when it comes to summoning spells. When he brought her back instead of using an object to summon her to, he decided she would be easier to control if he summoned her to himself. He wanted his own pet witch to order about, but instead he became the pet."

"I didn't mean to kill anyone else," Pete said pleadingly, again he directed his appeal to Sam. The way Dean looked at him he knew that he would be wasting his efforts but maybe he could convince Sam. "I couldn't find a way to break the spell, to send her back. You don't understand how cruel she. . . I had no choice you have to believe me I couldn't. . ."

"Oh, but that's not entirely true is it Pete." Dean's voice was cold. "You did have a choice. You do know a way to send her back, don't you?"

Pete nodded, his eyes downcast.

"How?" Sam demanded.

"If I die," Pete stated quietly, he lifted his eyes to meet Sam's gaze. "The summoning spell will break if I die."

Sam held his gaze for a moment before turning to his brother. "What? Dean No! Whatever's going on here there has to be another way we have to find a way to stop this without. . ."

Dean stood and took a step towards Sam. "Whoa, there Sam, I know. Why do you think I brought him here? Don't get me wrong I think this sleazebag deserves to die. He's killed three people." He was going to kill you. "He will be responsible for a lot more deaths if we don't stop this thing, but we'll find another way." He held his brother's gaze. "We'll find another way."

Sam nodded, searching the room for his laptop.

"But Sam," Sam turned back to his brother. "You know if it comes down to a choice. . ." He didn't have to complete the sentence his brother got it. If it came down to a choice between Pete's life and Sam's life, they both knew who Dean would save, no matter what it cost him, no matter what he had to do.

Sam stared back at his brother, at his injured, battered, weary brother. It always hurt him to see Dean this way, but knowing that he'd caused those injuries. . .knowing that he'd been ready to kill. . . It tore at his insides, humbled him that he'd practically killed his brother, and here Dean was standing ready to give up a piece of his soul for him, and he vowed to himself that if it came down to it then he would be the one to do it, because for all his brother's stoicism Sam knew that Dean had a much more fragile soul than he did and he couldn't let Dean. . . God it scared him; the things Dean was prepared to do for him. "It won't come to that," he said.

Dean watched his brother turn back to the table and head for his laptop, then he looked back at Pete and he knew that it would.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

It always amazed Dean how a split second in time could seem so long. He'd had several episodes in his short life, moments where time seemed to have no meaning; every thought, every movement stretching out to an eternity and simultaneously happening in an instant. On a rational level he knew that the hyperawareness, was caused by chemical releases in overload when your body and mind were convinced you were going to die. He knew that, just like he knew this time he was going to die.

Sam had made it seem so casual, stretching aching muscles and yawning, standing to allow a fuller stretch and then asking if Dean wanted some coffee. Dean hadn't even looked up from the book he was studying; he'd just waved his empty cup for Sam to take from his hand. He hadn't really noticed when Sam diverted for the bed, his hunter instincts only kicking in when Sam moved for the door. That had him picking up his weapon from the table and turning and standing in one move, but he was too late. Sam's pistol was already pointing directly at his head.

"Don't move Dean," Sam said thumbing off the safety. Then he deliberately swiped his foot through the salt line and opened the door.

"You know," Jess said as she stepped into the room. "I really wanted to let Sam take his time killing you. I think it would have been good for him, therapeutic, you know, but you've become too much of a liability. I'll just have to have my fun and take my time with Sam. He won't be objecting." To make her point, she ran a sharp nail down Sam's cheek, pressing hard enough to draw blood. Then she wiped some of the blood with her finger and placed it in Sam's mouth. He licked it off and she patted him on the cheek. Dean bristled, his own posture shifting slightly.

Sam's finger tightened on the trigger.

Jess giggled, then said casually. "Kill him."

And then Dean was in that moment and he knew that he wasn't just going to die but he was going to die by Sam's hand and he hoped to God that his little brother didn't remember a moment of it. It was too much to ask that he wouldn't figure it out but at least if he didn't remember doing it he would have a better chance of convincing himself that it wasn't his fault, and it wasn't Sammy's fault. Dean knew that, not Sammy's fault at all.

If only he had a way of telling him, but he had a more urgent task in his last half second of life. He had to save Sammy. There was no choice now, nothing else he could do. If he didn't do this then Sammy would die, many others would die too and maybe for them he wouldn't do it, couldn't do it, but for Sam. . .

His gun had already been pointing in Pete's direction, but his eyes turned back to meet his brother's because he wanted Sam to be the last thing he saw, needed to know that Sam was there, that Sam would take care of him.

There were so many things he wanted to say to his little brother. So much that he needed to know, but Dean knew that he didn't have time. There was nothing he could do, because in saving Sam he was condemning him to a future of pain. Nothing that Dean could say to him would erase the anguish of what Sam was doing and there was nothing Dean could do to spare him from that pain. He was out of time, stretched or otherwise, and he settled for the only thing he could think of that might help. It was a woefully inadequate epitaph. "It's not your fault Sam," he whispered.

Dean knew that if the roles had been reversed if he was forced to kill Sam then he couldn't go on, but Sam was stronger than that. He would have to be.

The gun's fired almost simultaneously.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: This chapter- this is why I write fanfic- again I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Chapter 12: Consequences**

Sam felt his brother's anguish cut across the room, the emotion slicing through him like a knife. His vision cleared and he saw the pain in his brother's eyes, heard it in the whispered half broken words. What wasn't his fault? His hand dropped just slightly and then he felt the kickback from the recoil of the revolver. His own mind screaming in anguish, as his brother jerked backwards, the bullet from his gun slamming into Dean, taking him down.

Before he could recover, before he could even take a breath, there was an anguished cry from beside him. He staggered backwards. It was Jess, standing next to him. His Jess, and she was burning, burning again and he fell back dropping the gun, unable to tear his eyes away as he had to watch Jess burn all over again, and then memories were slamming back into his brain, memories of the last two days with the woman he loved, laughing, caressing, feeling, smelling and she was burning, burning over again and he needed Dean. Oh God! Dean!

Sam flinched back from the memories of what he'd done to his brother, pushing him down the steps, hitting him with the car, trying to strangle him with his bare. . .his breath caught. He'd had his gun aimed at Dean's head, real bullets, point-blank range. He couldn't. . .and then he was retching, throwing up as his system reacted to the images in his head, because he had just killed. . .His thoughts jumbled and fragmented and disjointed, until the only realities were the pain and the torment and he fell back against the wall, tears falling freely down his cheeks because he couldn't. . .Dean. . .He just couldn't. . .

His breathing was shallow and rapid and he felt like his skin was burning, but his hands were like ice, and he knew that he was hyperventilating and that he had to get it under control, that he had to move, see what he had done. See if there was any way. . . Dammit he needed control. He slammed his hand down on the floor, forced the next breath to slow, his own muscles fighting against him, the next breath he managed to slow more, ignoring his body's demands as he pulled in a lungful of air and held it before exhaling, and then he was moving forwards, pushing towards the slumped form of his brother, almost gagging again at the blood. He half walked half crawled, scrabbling across the distance between them as fast as his uncoordinated limbs would carry him, because he had to see, had to know, had to touch, had to feel. The world expanded and contracted around him as he moved. His perception ending a few inches from his nose, or at the end of a long tunnel, flashes of reality, blinked in and out, like someone had slowed the projector.

He was at Dean's side, could see the blood, could see Dean's face, and for the first time since he'd felt the gun's recoil he felt a little hope. He had pulled the shot, dropped it away from Dean's head. He could still remember the force in his mind, pushing him to obey, the strength of his love for Jess making him easier to control, and, despite the fact that he knew that it was wrong, he'd been ready to kill his brother. The head shot would have been fatal, would have been, if he hadn't seen Dean hurting, hadn't seen the pain. It had broken the spell enough for him to move his hand as the shot fired, but not enough God not enough!

The bullet had taken Dean in the upper chest, and Sam reached out a still uncoordinated hand to touch it, to rest on it. He must have pressed too hard because Dean gave a slight groan, and it was the most beautiful sound Sam had ever heard because it meant that Dean was alive.

He was alive. .

Dammit! That should have been the first thing he'd checked, because finding out that Dean was alive was more important than. . .but he knew why he hadn't, his thoughts were out of control, wouldn't connect because the emotion was twisting around them breaking them, coiling and swirling and cutting through his mind, through his body, muscles and nerves reacting to ghosts of sensation, tightening in pain, until he couldn't breath, couldn't think because he had come so close to. .

Dean! He closed his eyes; breathed the name. God Dean what had he done?

Dean groaned again, shifting slightly this time, and it was enough. Sam knew what he had to do because Dean needed help. He had to help him, and the emotions were getting in the way of that, and that meant he couldn't afford them. So he systematically began to shut them down, to push them back, putting them behind barriers so hastily erected that it would only need a strong breeze to bring them down, but that was OK because he didn't plan on going out in the wind. Not until Dean was OK, not until he'd helped his brother.

Sam stood, running to the bathroom to grab towels washcloths, whatever he could find, dropping them next to his brother's head, then he grabbed their first aid kit and dropped himself back to his Dean's side. He knew he had no choice but that didn't make what he had to do next any easier. He grabbed one of the towels and pressed it hard into Dean's shoulder. He needed to slow and stop the bleeding. Dean arched off the floor crying out in pain as his eyes shot open and then closed again tightly. He collapsed sweating back to the floor.

"Dean," Sam called and the desperation in his tone wasn't lost on him. He tried to push that away too, but his brother was conscious and in pain and he needed to get through to him. To try to keep him awake. "Dean, are you with me? Come on open your eyes for me."

He was rewarded with green slits, Dean's entire face creased in pain. "Sam?" the word was faint, barely formed.

Sam smiled and tears formed at the edges of his vision despite his embargo on emotions. "Yeah Dean it's me."

"What. . .What 'pned?" Dean's brow creased in confusion, nothing was making any sense. He had no memories, no place in reality, but that was OK because Sam was there. Sam would know.

'What happened?' and didn't that loaded question threaten to drop Sam at the first hurdle, because the emotion was ready to push that barrier over and release in a flood that would drown his psyche so thoroughly that he wasn't sure it would surface again. He bit into his lip, using the pain as a defence, pushing the emotion further back down inside. He could do this. If only his damn eyes would stop tearing up. "You've been shot." He stated carefully..

"Shot," Dean repeated, his vision swimming in and out. "How? . .Who?. . What. .?"

Sam ignored the questions, grateful that Dean didn't remember, not yet, not until he'd had a chance to. . . "I need to get a look, see if there's an exit wound." He watched his brother carefully but Dean didn't respond. "Dean, I'll be quick but I need to get a look. OK." There was still no response and Sam wasn't sure his brother had heard him. "Dean?"

Dean could process his brother's words at least enough to know that it meant more pain and he didn't think he could take any more. He was already bathing in a sea of pain. It was too much, and Sam was asking him. . . .

"Dean?"

If Sammy was asking it must be needed. He should. . .Pain shafted through his chest and for a moment he couldn't think couldn't breathe. He couldn't. . . no more please God no more! He let out a gutteral sound close to a whimper, grabbing Sam's sleeve and clinging to it as he rode out the wave of pain. Then he gave a short sharp nod. Stealing himself because he knew he had to, because Sammy was asking him to. "S'okay S. . .Sam, do . . what you need. . .to."

Sam shifted his position. He would have hated himself for having to do this. If he was allowing any emotion, if he didn't hate himself so much for what he'd done already, because he had caused all of this pain for his brother, all of it.

The emotional walls held. . .just.

Held while he lifted his brother from the floor, held when Dean cried out, held when Dean's hand pawed desperately at his front, caught fabric, gripped and twisted it in a desperate attempt to escape from the pain, held as Sam scanned Dean's back and cursed that there was nothing there, that the bullet was still inside, held as he closed his eyes and lowered his brother back to the floor, held while he prayed that his brother would stay awake to stave off the inevitable shock, held while he prayed that Dean would lose consciousness and be spared the contorting agony.

They held through all that and Sam was getting better at denying any emotion, at walling it up, but when Dean opened his eyes, barely catching his breath and with full awareness stated. "It's not your fault Sammy." He almost fell apart.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

"Don't Blame yourself Sam," Dean stated softly, with more clarity than he'd thought possible. Truth was when the memories finally coalesced he couldn't quite believe that he'd been given this chance to say goodbye, this chance to maybe save Sam from some of that pain.

Sam had been aiming at his head. No damn way he could have missed at that distance. So Dean knew that he was dead. He just wasn't sure why he hadn't stopped breathing yet, and why did it hurt so much? Because dead should surely be less painful than this. He drew in a shaky breath and coughed weakly, tasting the familiar coppery tang of blood and wondering idly if it was from splatter or if the path of the bullet had ricocheted down from his skull, would that chew up much brain? Would he still be able to think this clearly? Wouldn't it be cool if. . . He gave another weak cough and strong arms shifted him to ease his breathing. . Sam? Dammit he had forgotten. . . He needed to. . . Sam needed to know that this was alright, that when he. .

Sam stared at him for a moment, his eyes scanning his brother's face before meeting his gaze, looking deep into Dean's eyes, and he couldn't help but see the love the forgiveness, but there was something else. "No!" he stated fiercely, realising belatedly that the one emotion he hadn't built his defences against was anger. "Hell no Dean! You are not giving up. You are not accepting this. You are going to fight because I can't be. . .I didn't mean. . . ." He lost his thread momentarily-Damn this was hard and he shouldn't be yelling at his brother, who had saved his life, who was bleeding to death in his arms. . .shouldn't be yelling because Dean was so damn fragile right now and couldn't defend. . . . God Dean! How could he. . . Please don't do this don't give up.

Sam's thoughts were loving and gentle and desperate and still the angry words poured out of him, because he had to get Dean to fight. He had to get him to keep. . . "You are going to fight. You hear me?" He pressed the cloth into Dean's shoulder, knowing that it must still be agonising, but this time Dean's only reaction was a sharp suck of breath, his gaze never leaving Sam's as he worried about his little brother's reaction. "I am going to keep you alive and you are going to help me, OK?"

Dean gave a slight nod. "I'll try," he whispered breathlessly, and he would for Sam, despite the pain, despite the slowly warping vision and the bright flashes. For Sammy he would try.

"No," Sam heard himself shouting again and it took every bit of self-control he had left not to follow it with another angry tirade. "No Dean," he said his tone dropping to a soft caress, because he could and would control himself for his brother. "No Dean, there is no trying. You have to fight. You have to stay alive." He paused and swallowed, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments at the stab of pain. He held his breath as he fought the tears that threatened to come, fought the anger that he was barely holding back, because he knew that his brother wouldn't fight for himself, but he also knew what his brother would fight for, with every fibre of Dean's being he knew that Dean would fight, all he had to do was ask, and that was what he wanted right?- For Dean to fight? He opened his eyes, catching and holding Dean's gaze with an intensity that connected them more strongly than the grip he had around Dean's shoulders, the haze of pain in his brother's eyes lessening for just a second. "For me," he stated softly. "You have to stay alive for me." He knew that it would get him what he wanted, knew that Dean wouldn't hesitate, even before he drew in pained breath, his eyes closing as he gave a slight nod. So if it got him what he wanted why did he feel like it was so wrong, why should he care why Dean was fighting to stay alive just as long as he was, and why did it hurt so Damn much that Dean didn't want it for himself?

"Promise me?" Sam asked, because suddenly he needed more reassurance.

Dean gave a soft huffing sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper because he didn't want to promise Sam something that he genuinely didn't think he could deliver on. He looked into Sam's eyes and he couldn't help it. He at least had to give his little brother something, and Sam had asked. "I promise." Dean said, and his only regret in saying it was that he might disappoint his brother if he couldn't keep his promise.

Sam closed his eyes letting the breath he had been holding go, and the pain was too much, tears fell from behind closed lids, and he had to let them flow for just a moment

"Don't cry Sam." The words were weak, breathy and Sam was compelled to open his eyes to look into his brother's, the compassion there was almost overwhelming. "Such a girl," Dean murmured fondly, his lips curling into a smile.

It was hard for Sam to suppress the bitterness of his thoughts because, yeah only a girl would cry after what he had been through, at being forced to beg his brother, the brother he had shot, to beg him so that he would at least try to fight to live. . .Only a girl. . .

"Yeah?" Sam asked, the tears stopping as he tried to steel himself for what he had to do next. "Well this girl needs to haul your ass to hospital." Sam stared into his brother's eyes. This was going to hurt but he had no choice. He couldn't get the EMT's to come to them, not when they had a dead body lying there. When Dean survived this. . . when, not if, there was no way he was getting arrested for murder. That was something Sam would take care of, but for now his priority was helping Dean survive. "You ready?" Sam asked, giving Dean the necessary warning so he could brace himself.

"Yeah," Dean lied and concentrated on shifting his own position as Sam moved around him.

"On three then," Sam stated. "One, two," and he lifted on the two, knowing that surprise was just as valuable as being prepared when it came to inflicting pain. Not that Dean wouldn't have known, they never really got to three in all of the too many years that they had been doing this and getting hurt, but it was an unspoken thing between them. You had to believe that your brother was going to get to three this time before he did anything because then. . .and by the time that thought was completed the bone was set, the shoulder back in, or as in this case, your brother had hauled you up into his arms against the screaming fire in your chest and all you could do was hold on for the ride and try not to pass out, scream like a girl or puke all over the front of his shirt, even if he totally deserved it for shooting you in the first place. No that wasn't right. . .didn't deserve. . . . not his fault. "So, not your fault, Sammy," Dean mumbled before passing out.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Sam walked back into the ER, more of a stumbling shuffle actually, quite an accomplishment with legs as long as his, but to have the strong even gait he was normally capable of he needed some functioning brain cells or at least ones that could focus on something other than the fact that he might have killed his own brother, that he'd left him, that someone here, right here, right now, could shatter his entire existence, because if Dean hadn't survived, if he had killed him then he wouldn't. . . couldn't. . . .

A leech sucked his energy away with every step forward, and he couldn't really move, couldn't really see, except he must be able to because he found himself at the nurses' station and there was someone in front of him and he was fairly sure that their lips were moving and that the faint buzzing sensation should be words if he could only. . . but his brain was beyond processing. He'd shoved every emotion, every feeling so deep in his efforts to just function, to just do what he had to do that they had gathered in a magma pool deep below the surface, building the pressure until they were ready to erupt, just waiting for his resolve to show the tinniest of cracks.

He had managed to get his brother to the hospital still alive, had carried him inside, his cries for help sounding desperate even to himself. It had been enough to bring the medics running or maybe it was the limp bleeding body he clutched tightly in his arms. So they had come, doctors, nurses, maybe even an orderly or two, taking Dean from him, whisking his brother away on a gurney in a flurry of shouts and activity, of questions and demands as they pulled Dean from him, and then they were gone and he was left there, standing, alone and numb, bereft and in pain, but he didn't have time for the self indulgence of emotion. He knew that he couldn't stay, knew that there were things that he must do, evidence he needed to dispose of and evidence he needed to plant to cover the clumsy version of events he had just mumbled to the medical staff. Things he had to do before the inevitable arrival of the police, before any curiosity they may have got too difficult.

He had forced reluctant legs to move, shoved his emotions so deep he was surprised they weren't leaking out of his toes and somehow he had managed to force himself away from the only place he wanted to be.

He left to do what he needed to do, his father would at last have been proud, a good little soldier doing what he had to do, no emotion, no regrets as the fire in Pete's garage took hold, destroying the evidence, destroying the bodies that he had been careful to place near the most flammable materials, near the acetylene tanks which would inevitably explode and remove any traces of their guilt. Oh yes, he had been trained well. Then it was back to the motel room to clean up the blood another skill that he had acquired far too early in life, scratch that it was a skill that most people did not need to acquire at all, but Sam knew exactly what to do, exactly what to use. Skillful, efficient, emotionless, just as he had been taught, disposing of bodies, cleaning up blood all managed easily until he tried to collect as much of his brother's blood as he could, Dean's blood, from the bullet wound that he. . .Fuck He almost lost it doing that but he didn't, good little soldier. He needed the blood to fake a hunting accident out of town, needed to make it look good, to remove suspicion of anything else. He drew in a deep breath, forced the emotion away again then he collected the blood, scrubbed the room clean, headed far enough out of town to make the hunting story a possibility and planted the blood traces in the dust. Finally he'd been finished, been able to go back, but damn wasn't that harder than it should have been, because if Dean hadn't made it. . .

"Sir?" the young nurse had been there when Sam had brought Dean in so she recognised him."Mr Faulkner?" She used the name from the Medical Insurance card Sam had given her. When there was still no response other than a fixed stare that didn't quite make eye contact, she moved around the desk. "Mr Faulkner" She touched him on the arm and he turned his head to look down at her hand. "Sam?" she finally tried. "It is Sam isn't it?"

"It is Sam isn't it?" the words finally registered in Sam's mind as something coherent, as a question, as something he should respond to. "Yes. . .I. . .it. " Sam fought against the confusion, the conflict between the part of himself that needed to know and the part that wanted to remain in blissful ignorance of any bad news. He needed to know.". . .my brother?"

". .is still in surgery but he's doing OK. The doctor should be out soon to update you on his condition but the last time we got news it was all good"

Sam stared at her, trying desperately to process the meaning of her words. "He's still alive?" He had to ask, even though she'd just told him that . . . "He's still alive?" He asked again because he needed the confirmation more than he'd ever needed anything else.

"Yes," the nurse stated clearly. "Yes he's alive but the doctor will tell you. . " She trailed off as Sam stumbled away from her.

It was all he needed to know, all he could handle for now. He managed to reach the wall, managed to turn and rest his back against it before sliding down, letting his long legs fold beneath him as he rested his head back and savoured that one thought. Dean was alive, to hell with anything else for now. Dean was alive.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	14. Chapter 14

Author's note: So here it is the final chapter- Sarah's brief for the story was Dean gets hurt saving Sam- I think I managed that! Thanks for the support of those who have left reviews and I hope you enjoy! Let me know and it may inspire me to write more- J

Chapter 14

"Sam we have to leave," Dean said struggling to lift himself to a sitting position, swinging his legs round so that they would carry his upper body which he held as stiff as he could manage. It didn't really help, the slight shift of his chest muscles was enough to shoot pain across and up and down and he winced, holding his breath as he waited for the spasms to pass. When he opened his eyes, Sam was there, practically holding him up, that sincere, kicked puppy expression sitting on his face as it had been ever since Dean had come round two days ago, Hell it had probably been there for much longer and Dean was glad he hadn't been coherent enough to witness that, two days was enough.

"But you're not ready to move yet," Sam stated, "just give it a couple more days and then. . ."

Dean made eye contact; it was enough to stop Sam mid sentence. "We both know that's not an option." And Sam did, they were already pushing their luck on the fake medical card that Sam had handed over that first day, two weeks ago now. Two weeks was far too long to hope that no one checked, to hope that bills hadn't been sent and queried and. . .too damned long to be sitting waiting to see if you're brother was going to die by your hand.

Well OK he had been fairly sure for the last 48 hours that Dean would survive, but he was still so weak, still looked so damn sick, hell just sitting up almost made him pass out, made his damn strong brother, who could take anything, register the agony that even simple movements caused, and all of that was down to Sam. The touch and go from the blood loss, from the damage his bullet had caused, from the secondary infection, from the coma that they hadn't been sure he would ever wake from, hadn't been sure his brother would ever. . .

"Sam," Dean pulled his brother back once again from the mire of guilt that he seemed insistent on trying to drown in. He didn't try to talk him round, didn't try to tell him that none of this was his fault, that it was beyond his control and that the only one who'd had any choice in all of this had been him, because he'd already tried all that, had already done enough chick flick moments in the last two days to be worthy of a girls night in sleepover weekend, but it was having no success. Sam just stared at the bandage covering the bullet wound and Dean could almost hear the thoughts. 'You shot him. You shot your brother. You nearly killed him. You.. ." thoughts that just repeated over and over and allowed no room for anything else, because Sam had already had almost two weeks to let those thoughts bed in. To let the guilt and the self recrimination weave tendrils deep into his psyche and Dean wasn't going to remove them with a few words, even by breaking his own rules and allowing Sam to see the real emotion.

Dean letting down his barriers was rare, because he needed to keep them in place. Most of the time it was the only way he could keep himself sane, with all that he'd seen, with all that he'd done. One of these days it would probably break him, but until that happened he only had one defence; real emotion was pushed deep, hidden, rarely allowed to surface, because with it came pain and uncertainty and want and need, emotions that he couldn't afford, but he'd let the barriers down these last two days, had let Sam see just how much he had needed to save him, just how much it had been his choice, his sacrifice to pull that trigger. How Sam's actions had been a direct result of his own and how he'd gone ahead despite knowing what Sam would have to do, but somehow telling Sam that he would gladly give his own life to save him hadn't helped.

With the lifting of the spell Sam had regained his memories, in fact all of the memories of his time with Jess. He knew now that it wasn't her but still it was her smell, her touch, her laugh, and the feelings she had stirred. . . that had been nearly enough to break him without the other memories that returned; memories of pushing his brother down the steps, of trying to strangle him, of shooting him, all of the memories of what he had done and the selfish bit of his psyche that she had played on to get him to do it. Sam knew that he had nearly killed his brother so that he could be with Jess and no amount of argument from Dean about 'nearly' not counting was helping him to feel any less guilty.

So this time Dean didn't bother with anything other than a simple plea. "Sam I need your help so we can get out of here." Simple, direct, sincere, Dean asking his brother for help from a position of vulnerability, Sam could only comply.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

"Look pull over and let me drive," Dean said, testily. They were about a hundred miles from the hospital and had crossed the state line about half an hour earlier so he was fairly sure that they were safe from any law enforcement picking up on them, but that wasn't why he was asking to drive.

"Why?" Sam asked turning his head from the road to look at his brother.

"Because your moody driving is upsetting her." Dean stated, patting the dash with his good hand.

"My 'moody' driving is upsetting the car?" Sam asked incredulously, somehow managing to put the word moody in air quotes without taking either of his hands from the steering wheel.

"Yes," Dean said firmly, "she's very sensitive and if there's one thing she can't stand it's self-pity."

Dean watched as his brother's expression shifted to instant anger at the accusation. "Self-pity!" the words almost exploded from his lips "I don't. . ."

"Yeah," Dean interrupted "You don't feel self pity you feel guilty for all the horrible things that the nasty witch made you do, because you really wanted to kill me, so you should. . ."

"I. Did. Not. Want. To. Kill. You." Sam stated, punctuating each word, horror at the accusation now replacing the anger, What did Dean think? What had he. . .?

There was a pause the atmosphere in the car could have been cut with a knife. "I know," Dean said softly, waiting until Sam met his gaze. "Now why don't you?"

Sam closed his eyes for an instant and then turned his gaze back to the road. He slowed the Impala down to a stop on the shoulder and just sat, his eyes forward. "It's not enough. Just knowing that I didn't really want to do it, it's not enough."

"She used a powerful weapon against you Sam."

"Oh yeah, what was that?" Sam asked keeping his eyes forward. He really didn't want to have this conversation again, they had been having it since Dean woke up but he guessed his brother just wasn't going to give up.

"Love," Dean stated and that was enough to get Sam to turn to meet his gaze.

"Love?" Sam repeated, his tone questioning.

Dean nodded "Probably the most powerful emotion and even more powerful when used as a weapon, and she used it to manipulate you."

Sam couldn't deny that. It had been love that had made him act, love for Jess. Still he wasn't ready to give in yet, "But I . . ."

"If the positions had been reversed," Dean interrupted. "I can't say that I wouldn't have done exactly the same things to you?"

"Oh really, have you ever even loved anyone enough to kill for them?" Sam regretted the question almost as soon as it left his lips.

Dean turned away. "Yes," he said softly, "I have," and in that moment Sam saw the truth of the statement; he wasn't sure if there was anyone else out there that Dean would kill for but Dean had killed for him. He hadn't just been willing to die to save him, he had been willing to kill, he had killed to save him and for that Sam should be grateful not wallowing in guilt and, yes Dean was right, something that was damn close to self pity. He should be.. .

"I'm sorry," Sam stated, sorry for the question, for the guilt, for the self pity for not seeing just how much Dean was willing to sacrifice for him.

Dean met his gaze again. "Never be surprised at the things love will make you do." There was a pause, "and if you ever repeat that I will deny ever having said it."

Sam felt the first genuine smile begin to spread across his face in far too long at the comment. Dean was alive, he was alive and they were going to be okay, maybe not straight away and Dean would probably bitch at him some more and he would mope some more but they would be OK.

"So," Dean asked, "Are you going to let me drive?"

Sam stared at him for a moment. "Can you even move your left arm yet?"

Dean glanced down at the sling that was immobilising his arm whilst his chest healed. "I can drive one handed."

THE END

Thanks for reading!


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